


People Say A Lot Of Things They Don’t Mean

by Lenore



Category: Bandom, Burn Notice, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Case Fic, Challenge: Little Black Dress, Crossover, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-13
Updated: 2008-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick gets kidnapped, and Pete stumbles on just the person to help get him back. Michael isn't sure how he got so lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Say A Lot Of Things They Don’t Mean

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Little Black Dress Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/black_dress_lex/). Big, huge thanks to my amazing beta readers [](http://linaerys.livejournal.com/profile)[**linaerys**](http://linaerys.livejournal.com/) and [](http://chaneen.livejournal.com/profile)[**chaneen**](http://chaneen.livejournal.com/) who gave me so much help on this story. The lyrics in Pete's note are [adapted from Pete himself](http://icecreamhdaches.livejournal.com/508442.html). Some of Patrick's dialogue relies heavily on his [AP.net article](http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?p=22674112).

Michael is dreaming when the infernal banging begins. He doesn't remember much about the dream once the racket jolts him awake, just a few fuzzy after-images. There's Fiona, smiling with such a complete lack of disappointment that it must be a hopeless fantasy or a memory from years ago. There's also, for some odd reason, a dancing bear, and even more disturbingly, Carla. That's like cold water in the face, and he rolls out of bed, his brain instantly online, calculating. He glances at the clock, just past eight, too early for a friendly visit. So it's either trouble or another party-addled hipster who's taken a wrong turn on the way home from the club. He grabs the 9mm out of the nightstand. Either way, he figures it'll come in handy.

He peers out the peephole, and standing there is a dark, skinny mess of a soon-to-be-dead man, covered in tattoos, wearing yesterday's makeup. Apparently, it's not early for him, so much as very, very late. Michael considers the possibilities, black ops maneuvers for hiding bodies that involve duct tape, cuticle scissors and a bag of quick lime. The banging gets even louder, the soon-to-be dead man really putting his back into it, and Michael flings open the door. Pistol-whipping in broad daylight, he figures, will work just as well as stealth.

The soon-to-be dead man blinks at him, all big, dark eyes of doom and quivering lip.

"I lost Patrick," he says mournfully.

Michael sorts through all the code phrases he's ever memorized, not that they'd be current anymore, not that this guy looks like anybody's idea of an agent. Old habits die hard. He comes up with nothing.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Nice eyeliner."

"Guyliner, dude," is the automatic answer, as if the subject has come up before. "I'm looking for Patrick. Have you seen him?"

Michael adopts the slightly threatening politeness that's been his first line of defense for years. "Can you be more specific?"

Guyliner scowls as if Michael has said something utterly scandalous. "_Patrick_," he reiterates, as if this explains everything. "I had him. But then I lost him. And now I can't find him anywhere. Is he in there? Can I just–"

Michael has guarded heads of state, kept terrorists out of sensitive government installations, fended off Nate's every attempt to steal money out of his wallet. You'd think he'd be better at keeping a nuisance like Guyliner out of his home. But Guyliner proves a slippery piece of business, all preternatural skinniness and slinky hips, sliding into the apartment before Michael can so much as get a restraining hand on him.

"Are you here? Patrick?" When he gets no answer, he raises his voice. It's way too early for this. "Patrick! Hey, bud, what's going on? Why'd you disappear on me last night?"

Michael closes the door when it becomes clear that Guyliner's not going to go easily. "Look, I don't know what you're on–"

"Nothing!" Guyliner puffs up indignantly. "Well, nothing I'm not _supposed_ to be on. Where're you getting your information? Perez Hilton? Buzznet? 'Cause it's bullshit."

"–and I don't care that you had a fight with your boyfriend–"

"Dude, you been hanging out on the wrong message boards. He's not my boyfriend. He's my Patrick."

"Either way, he's not here." Michael flashes the flat, tight smile that would make anyone in their right mind think twice about being locked in a room alone with him.

But Guyliner is clearly not in his right mind. "Man, I feel like crap. I swear to God that tall scary chick roofied me. Oh, shit yeah, is that coffee?"

Michael only now realizes that the automatic timer has gone off on the coffeemaker. There's not even the telltale waft of caffeine in the air yet. Guyliner is either a hopeless coffee addict or far more observant than a day-old party boy should be.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen and rifles through the cabinets. Michael decides his plan to kick him down the stairs will have to wait until he's sure he's not bearing a message of some kind. Guyliner replaces the coffee pot with the mug he's hijacked, too impatient to wait for the brew cycle to finish. The maneuver is smooth despite shaking hands, clearly well practiced. Michael adds a tick mark to the "Harmless, Obnoxious Caffeine Addict" column in the balance sheet he's keeping in his head.

Guyliner takes a long, loud gulp. "Oh, thank God."

Michael moves closer, the gun still in his hand, held carefully down at this side, the metal cool against his leg even through the fabric of his sweatpants. "You know where they have really good coffee? Argentina. Ever been?"

"Yeah," Guyliner says in between slurps. "It was cool."

Michael nods. "Travel a lot?"

Guyliner shrugs. "You know. Touring and stuff. Mostly Europe and the U.S. Africa once. Asia some."

Touring. Michael turns that over. Tour of duty? Guyliner certainly doesn't look military.

"And Patrick, he's your partner?"

Guyliner nods. "Yeah. I mean, words and music. You know."

That does sound like code. Two halves of the same whole. Michael knows there are some operatives with complementary skills who prefer to work as a team. He studies Guyliner more closely, trying to figure out what his role might be. Intel gatherer, probably not. Muscle, definitely no. Set up man, now that's possible. Beneath yesterday's makeup, Guyliner is actually rather pretty: tan and golden-eyed and the kind of sleepy looking that smacks of sex, always a plus when you're playing a part, running a con. The rumpled hoodie and one pant leg pushed up, it's genius when Michael thinks about it. The kind of costume that says to a mark, _hey, you don't have to worry about me, I'm just a guy who's spent a couple of years living out of a van._

Strangely enough, it's the most conspicuous operatives that you never see coming. That thought makes Michael go cold all over. Oh shit.

"Hey," Guyliner waves his hand at Michael, "you still in there?"

Michael blinks, and he really doesn't know how he didn't notice the resemblance before, except that it's something he tries never to think about. Amsterdam, fifteen years ago. Michael was still new enough at the spy game that he could believe running into a slight, dark pretty boy with a come-hither smile out back of a club was just a random stroke of luck. He was new enough that he hadn't learned to turn off loneliness and desire like a faucet. So he took the pretty boy back to his hotel and fucked him. Accepted the tumbler of vodka handed to him. Woke up fifteen hours later with a dry mouth and one hell of a headache. Six hours too late for the meet with his contact.

Nobody was supposed to know about that. Michael had fixed it. Gotten the information he needed, even though his contact was dead. Seen to it that the pretty boy would never pull that number on anyone else. There's no way Carla found out about it. Except, of course, that she has a talent for knowing things she couldn't possibly.

Except another slight, dark pretty boy is standing in Michael's kitchen.

"Hey, man, you got any milk? Where do you keep the sugar?" Guyliner starts opening cabinets again.

Michael tightens his hand on his gun, takes a silent step forward.

He freezes when someone knocks at the door.

Guyliner looks over his shoulder, and without the least hint of irony, "Dude, who shows up this early on a Sunday?"

Michael relaxes his grip on the trigger, shrugs. "Jehovah's Witnesses."

Guyliner goes back to his search for the sugar. Michael eases over to the door, keeping him in his line of sight.

"Good morning, Michael."

As usual, Fiona breezes past him without waiting to be invited in, and Michael catches the scent of her hair, light and flowery and _Fiona_. The dream from the night before splashes back up at him, vague but menacing. He angles his body so he's between Fi and Guyliner. If there's shooting, she won't be the one to go down.

"I've come about Campbell. I'm tired of you putting me off. I want to know once and for all your honest opinion of him." She stops when she realizes they're not alone. She tries to take a step around him to see who it is and elbows him when he blocks her way. "Michael, what is Pete Wentz doing in your kitchen?"

Guyliner–Pete, whatever–gives her a tired little wave.

Michael wracks his memory. Pete Wentz. Where has he heard that name? How would Fiona know him? Wentz hardly sounds Irish. Maybe when she was running guns in central Europe?

Fiona glances down at the 9mm in his hand. "You have no idea who he is, do you?" She shakes her head sadly. "You really need to get out more, Michael."

"Sorry," Pete says around the rim of his coffee cup. "I should have said. We're in a band. Me and Patrick. Joe and Andy. But they're not lost. Just Patrick." He takes a breath and fixes wounded puppy eyes on Fiona. "That's what I'm doing in his kitchen. I lost Patrick."

Fiona makes a sympathetic noise, which would probably be disturbing if Michael weren't still stuck on the part where he spent the last half hour plotting counter measures to take down a bedraggled rock star.

Fiona floats over to Pete, pats him reassuringly on the arm, something he's never seen her do in her life.

Pete apparently takes this as an invitation and lays his head on her shoulder. "I can't find him anywhere."

"Poor Pete. But don't worry. Michael will fix everything." She turns a pointed glance on him. "Won't you, Michael?"

"_Me_?"

He hasn't gotten over feeling like a paranoid fool yet, and now Pete is draped all over Fiona. He's not much in the mood to be helpful.

"Patrick is _lost_. We have to do something." Fiona gently disentangles herself from Pete and stalks over to Michael. "Just look at him." She flings out her arm. "He's clearly distraught."

Pete slumps against the counter, watching Fiona hopefully, as if waiting for her to come back so he can lay his head on her shoulder again. Michael doesn't like him any better for this. Besides, he's a _rock star_. Odds are the only thing wrong with him is a hangover. Whoever this Patrick is, he's probably safe and sound back in L.A. or New York or wherever he's supposed to be. It's entirely possible that Guyliner simply imagined that he was ever in Florida.

Fiona lowers her voice to an insistent hiss. "His boyfriend is missing. Imagine how you'd feel if you lost someone who was important to you."

Just like that, they're not talking about Pete or Patrick or anything that Michael wants to be talking about. He quickly looks away. "He says they're not involved."

"Yes, well," Fiona tosses her hair, "people say a lot of things they don't mean. It doesn't change how they feel."

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose. It's way too early for one of these slippery slope conversations with Fi. Happily, Pete's iPhone goes off before he has to answer. Pete bends his head over it, and then invective explodes in the air, "Motherfucking motherfuckers!"

"Pete?" Fiona says.

He waves his iPhone at them. "Some douchebag sent me a picture of Patrick holding up today's newspaper. With this bullshit email, 'if u want ur singer bak du as we say, and no polise,' and people say I can't fucking spell. Seriously, what the fuck? My _singer_? Like that's all Patrick is to me? Fucking douchebags don't even _know_ how fucking awesome Patrick Stump is. And what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

Pete looks at them wildly, and Fiona elbows Michael, hard.

"Okay, okay," Michael says grudgingly. "We'll figure it out. Just stay calm."

"How the fuck am I supposed to do that?" Pete sputters. "It's– _Patrick_. And the fuckers took his hat! He won't even let me take pictures of him without his hat."

Michael reaches for the iPhone, manages to break Pete's death grip on it. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to take a look at the ransom demand, but it's pretty clear we're not dealing with professionals here. So odds are we'll be able to–"

"Hey, Mike, the door was open, so I just–" Sam stops and looks around. "Hey, do you know you've got Pete Wentz in your kitchen?"

Fiona breaks into a big, wide _told you you're hopelessly out of it_ smile. Pete hovers forlornly by the kitchen island, clinging to his coffee, hood pulled up, looking tiny and miserable. Despite himself, Michael feels maybe a little bad for the guy.

"Jesus, Mike," Sam whispers. "What'd you do to him?"

Michael scowls.

"Okay, okay," Sam holds up his hands, "so he's managed to look this awful all by himself."

"I didn't lose Patrick," Pete tells Sam plaintively. "Some douchebag stole him."

"What?" Sam looks to Michael in confusion.

Michael hands over the iPhone, and Sam's eyes go wide.

"Ah, man. Sorry to hear it," he tells Pete. He lowers his voice and leans in to Michael. "You know he and Patrick are–" He waves his hand in a vaguely suggestive way.

Michael sighs. "He says they're just friends."

Sam's lips quirk wryly. "Yeah, well, you say you and Fi–" He clears his throat. "So what's the plan?"

"We get Patrick back," Pete interjects loudly. "That's the fucking _plan_."

"Yes, Pete, that is the plan," Michael says in the slow, deliberate, listen-to-me, listen-to-me-now voice that he reserves for the severely unhinged. "But to make that happen, we all need to stay cool and think clearly, okay?"

For a moment, Pete looks like he wants to take a swing at Michael, or throw some furniture, or quite possibly both. But he breathes in and out and nods tensely. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Anything to get Patrick back."

"Good, that's good, Pete. Now tell me everything that's happened since you got to Miami."

Pete leans against the counter, as if he needs some help holding himself up. "Okay, so we came down to hear this band we thought we might want to sign."

"Pete discovered Panic at the Disco," Fiona chimes in, breathless and a little fawning, no doubt on purpose. That could really start to get on Michael's nerves, not that he's planning to let Fiona know it.

Pete nods distractedly. "Anyway, this band, right? They sent us this totally kick ass demo. I mean, Patrick was in love with this music, that's how fucking awesome it was. And then we get to the club last night, this little place in South Beach, and me and Patrick we're all, hey, this is going to rock, and then the band comes out, and they start playing, and, dude, they've totally pulled a Milli Vanilli, only not even, because, hey, at least those guys could dance, you know?"

Michael frowns. "This was when?"

"Friday. So we suffer through a song, and then we get the hell out of there."

"And yesterday?"

"We hung out. Got some food. Patrick wanted to shop for records. Then last night I had this guest DJ thing at–" Pete waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the club downstairs.

"Did people know you'd be there?"

Pete shrugs. "Probably. I mean, I didn't twitter about it or anything. But word gets out. You know how it is."

"So what happened at the club?" Michael prompts.

"We get there at, like, midnight, and Patrick heads to the bar. I go up to the booth, get into the music. When I'm done, I head down to the bar, and I'm looking around for Patrick. Then this tall scary chick comes over and starts talking to me. She keeps going on and on about what a cool band those Milli Vanilli lame asses are, and I'm trying to tell her I have to find Patrick, and she says just one drink, and then there's a total blackout in my head until I woke up this morning on a pile of trash in the alley."

Michael listens carefully, the dots connecting. "Do you have a headache? Nausea? Dizziness? Coordination off?"

Pete nods along to every symptom. "Yeah, yeah, man. I told you I feel like shit. Does that mean something?"

"It means the tall, scary chick most likely drugged you to make it easier to kidnap Patrick. What did she look like?"

Pete plucks at the sleeve of his hoodie, frowning as if thinking hurts, and slowly describes dark hair and a square jaw and a really short black skirt, not much of an improvement over tall and scary.

"Sorry, dude. My memory is for shit. Does this mean–" He gets a bleak, desperate look. "Are we still going to be able to find Patrick if I can't fucking remember anything?"

"We have a lot of experience with this kind of thing," Michael tells him calmly. "We'll get him back for you."

It's clear that Pete wants to trust this, but he still needs some reassuring. "You're sure I shouldn't call the police? I mean, kidnappers always say not to, right?"

"You can call the police if you feel more comfortable with that," Michael tells him, "and they'll use all their resources to get Patrick back safely. And I'm sure they'll probably be successful. But there will be publicity. As you said yourself, things just get out, and publicity adds a wild card to the situation. If we handle the job, we can get Patrick back quietly."

"And you really have done this before?" Pete ventures hopefully.

Michael nods. "We really have."

"More than once?"

"More than a lot," Sam remarks dryly.

Pete's expression twists as he weighs his options. "Yeah. Okay. I want you guys. I'll pay you whatever you want. Whatever it takes."

"Let's not worry about that right now," Michael tells him. "Let's just focus on what we need to do for Patrick. The email says the kidnappers are going to call with demands. We want them to think you're handling this on your own. So you need to be ready to talk to them, ready to negotiate. You think you can handle that?"

Pete just blinks, his face pale beneath the smeared makeup, looking exactly like somebody who woke up in a dumpster. Fi shoots a look at Michael, as if to say _do something_.

It's Sam, though, who springs into action. "Oh, hey, I know what you need." He goes to the refrigerator. "Yogurt?"

* * *

Patrick opens his eyes, no clue where he is. This isn't exactly unusual, life on the road and all that. He can fall asleep pretty much anywhere and has woken up in some pretty odd places: curled up inside a drum case, wrapped around his bandmates, and once, disturbingly, in a pile of Dirty's laundry. He blinks, and the light hurts his eyes. He squints, reaches out blindly, groping for his glasses and hat. He can't find either, and that's not a good sign. He wonders what kind of night he had last night. And then wonders why he has to wonder.

He scrunches up his forehead and fuzzily tries to piece it together. Pete was doing the guest DJ thing, and Patrick was hanging out, listening to the music, waiting for him to finish up. Then someone was crowding up against him at the bar. He expected it to be Pete, but when he turned around, a tall woman in a really tiny skirt was staring down at him.

"Um, hey," he said, a little uncertainly.

She smiled, kind of creepily, and handed him a drink. "From your bassist."

He raised an eyebrow. "Pete sent me a Pink Flirtini?"

"Drink up, Patrick Stump."

He had an apparently premonitory flash of after-school-special wisdom, _just say no_, but there was that creepy smile again. He figured maybe he could get rid of her if he just–

His memory goes on the fritz after that. And hmm. That doesn't seem, you know, like a good thing.

Patrick pushes up onto his elbow, feels around for his glasses again, and manages to come up with them this time. He slides them on, hands fumbling, and peers blearily around. Cinderblock walls, stained concrete floor, and the cot he's sprawled out on…well, let's just say it's a good thing nothing can gross him out after years of living out of a grubby van with his even grubbier bandmates. He's not-so-fondly remembering waking up to the smell of Joe's feet when he notices the door. It's big and industrial looking, and more importantly, there's no latch. Like it can only be opened from the outside. Like someone has shut him up in here. He blinks and squints and takes another look, really hoping he's wrong. But yeah. No. There really is no way out.

He calls out in a small voice, "Pete?"

* * *

The gang parks Pete in a chair with pen and paper and instructions to write down anything that comes back to him, no matter how unimportant it might seem. He curls up, knees drawn in tight against his stomach, hood pulled down low over his face, huddling in a pool of sun slanting through the window. Usually Pete thinks better with a pen in hand, but now all he can manage is to scratch doodles on the page and wonder why he's so cold. It's fucking _Miami_. But maybe that's how the day-after-roofying feels, like you're freezing to death from the inside.

Or maybe that's just his Patrick-less-ness starting to sink in.

Pete rubs at his forehead, closes his eyes, tries to concentrate, but still there's nothing. Just nothing.

Except that's not true. There's nothing they can _use_. Pictures swim behind Pete's eyes, but it's not last night. It's years ago, in Patrick's mom's kitchen, and Pete can almost feel the cool Formica of the table beneath his elbows. Patrick hunches next to him, shoulders nervous-tense. His mouth is threatening to break into that petulant thing it does when he doesn't get his way, because Patrick may be the coolest person Pete has ever known, but he's still a sixteen-year-old.

Mrs. Stump finally lets out her breath, and only then does Pete realize it feels like they've been waiting forever for her to say something. "If I let Patrick go on this tour," Patrick fist-pumps, and his mother reiterates in a stern voice, "_if_, then I expect you to look out for him, Pete. Any trouble, and he's not leaving this house again until he goes to college."

She turns the full floodlight of motherly scrutiny on him, and Pete breaks into the big, trust-me smile that has been conning people's moms for years. "You got it, Mrs. S. No sex or drugs, just rock n' roll." He crosses his heart.

He has no idea why she believes him.

Except maybe she understands something about him that he hasn't even guessed about himself. It's only a two-week tour, but Pete spends what feels like years snatching beer bottles out of Patrick's hand and checking for dilated pupils and threatening to rip the balls off creepy old guys who stare at Patrick's mouth like they've just won the lottery. His thank-you is a fist to the gut in the alley outside this divey little club in nowheresville, Ohio, a shaking, furious Patrick in his face, shouting at the top of his golden lungs, spit flying everywhere, "Just fucking stop it, you fucking _fuck_!"

And the thing is Pete should be pissed, man, pissed as _hell_, because Patrick may be pint-sized, but the little fucker hits hard. Yet all Pete can do is smile like his face is going to break, and when he can breathe again, "Dude. I promised your _mom_."

He smiles that much harder when Patrick stomps off down the alley, kicking stray beer bottles and knocking the lid off a garbage can, because Pete loves him even when he's a pissy little bitch. Maybe especially then.

The gang talks in low tones, making plans. _If the kidnappers want money, we should be ready for that, Mike. Yeah, you're right, Sam. I'll talk to Pete, find out how much he can pull together._

Pete idly wonders if maybe he should find out more about who these people are now that he's put Patrick's safety in their hands, but the thought drifts away as quickly as it drifted in. Pete trusts his gut, always has, and his gut tells him that these people know what they're doing. That's all he really needs to know about them. Besides, what other choice does he have if he can't call the police without _Fall Out Boy Lead Singer 'Napped By Douchebags!_ being splattered all over the Internet?

Anyway, the gang seems okay. Hot Chick is, well…hot, if you like the type who could break you in two without chipping a nail, which Pete does in the abstract, although in practice he tends to go for ladies who are more likely to bruise his heart than his face. Getting beaten up by girls is hard on the self-esteem. Loud Shirt seems cool, the kind of dude you could kick back and have a beer with.

And the other one…well, he seems to know what he's doing, to a scary degree actually, and Pete genuinely _believes_ he will get Patrick back safe and sound. It's a testament to the way the guy just oozes competence, since Pete's confidence rests on knowing him all of an hour.

None of this means Pete has missed the fact that the guy has an issue with him. He'd write it off as a territorial pissing match over Hot Chick, because obviously there's something there, some history, and Hot Chick seems to like stirring things up. But the guy…Pete is half tempted to call him "Mikey," if only in his own head, because that's just ridiculously funny and he's pretty sure the guy would punch him if he said it out loud. But that just brings Mikey Way to mind, and Pete's contrary brain tries to overlay one Mikey onto the other, and it's a moment of such cognitive dissonance that he thinks firmly at himself, _Michael. Let's just go with that, okay?_

So…_Michael_ had a problem with him even before Hot Chick showed up. Pete doesn't miss that sort of thing. He's had too much experience with it. He would have sworn the guy looked at him like he recognized him, so he figured just another Pete-Wentz-hater. Same-old, same-old. Only turns out not. Because Michael clearly has no idea who he is. Which makes this somehow personal. Which makes Pete want to live up to every reputation he has for obnoxiousness.

Except that this is the guy who's going to help him get Patrick back, and annoying him on purpose would be really _bad_. So Pete isn't going to do it, isn't going to, isn't going to.

Voices drift over to him, the gang still busily making plans. _Fi, I need you to go check out the club, find out if anyone saw anything. Think you can handle that for me? Of course, Michael. I'm always happy to help. But don't think this gets you off the hook. We're still going to have that conversation about Campbell._

Hot Chick heads off to play detective. Michael has been watching her all morning, whenever he thinks she's not looking, and he watches her now, keeps on staring even after she's gone. Roofied and Patrick-less and a fucking pounding in his head like there's something trying to break out of his skull, and Pete has no trouble seeing that for what it is.

He knows it well.

It's the night before last, after the band sucking short-circuits their plans, and they end up drifting back to the hotel suite. Pete has in mind tuning into something really brainless on MTV and raiding the mini bar and maybe running up and down the halls to work off some excess energy. Patrick sprawls out on the sofa and buries his nose in the computer like he has no plans to come up for air anytime soon. This is kind of insulting, but also a windfall, and Pete is nothing if not a guy who knows how to capitalize on opportunity. He drags his book out of his suitcase, curls up on a chair and settles in for some quality Patrick-gazing.

He really gets into it too, appreciating the little pucker between Patrick's eyebrows when he concentrates, the soft purse of his pretty pink lips, the way those platinum-record-selling hands move over the keys, flex of muscle in his arms, the splay of strong thighs. There is nothing about Patrick that Pete doesn't just want to devour, and maybe he goes a little overboard with the staring, because Patrick snaps him out of his reverie with, "Stop it."

"What?" he says innocently.

Patrick doesn't look up from the computer. "Whatever you're doing."

He assumes that Pete is just being…well, Pete. But this…this is– _I never want to stop looking at you._ Pete could say that. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he could even get Patrick to listen.

Instead, he gets up and goes to flop onto the couch, crowding against Patrick, close, if not as close as he'd like to be, jostling the computer, colonizing Patrick's leg as his pillow, rubbing his cheek against his jeans. "Pay attention to me."

This is not the first time he's failed to live up to his own personal folklore of being that guy who throws himself into shit and fuck the consequences. The old attention-whore shtick is safe, and even if it won't get him what he wants exactly, it will get him something. Always does. Patrick snorts softly and threads his fingers through Pete's hair and lightly scratches at his scalp.

Pete pretends to complain, "I'm not Hemingway, you know."

Patrick's lips quirk up at the corners. "Yeah, Hemmy's a lot less annoying."

"Fucker." Pete whacks him on the knee.

Patrick laughs. "Hey, you know you're a pain in the ass."

"You know you like me that way."

"Uh-huh," Patrick says noncommittally.

But he doesn't t take his hand away, not for a good, long while.

Pete's phone rings in his pocket, making him jump. The notepad goes flying as he scrambles to dig it out. He can practically taste his heart pounding in his throat when he sees the number.

Michael is suddenly right there, issuing instructions, "Put it on speaker phone. Stay cool, keep them talking. The more they say, the more we have to work with. Insist on speaking with Patrick."

Pete nods along, but all he can really focus on is, "Trick!"

"Pete?"

"Patrick, where are you? Are you okay?"

"Hey!" Patrick's voice is suddenly cut off.

"_Patrick_!" Pete shouts desperately.

"He can't come to the phone right now." There's someone else on the line now, someone who sounds oddly familiar. "So listen carefully. If you want your lead singer back, you're going to give us what we want."

Pete frowns. "Wait. I know you, man."

Michael makes a warning face, but Pete shakes his head. He trusts his gut, and his gut tells him that he knows this guy. Figuring that out could be important.

"No–" the kidnapper stutters, one hell of a bad liar. "No, you don't."

"Yeah," Pete insists. "I've got a thing for voices. I always remember–"

And then it clicks into place. The voice that wasn't the voice on the demo.

"Motherfucking motherfuckers! Is this payback because we didn't stay to hear you guys _suck_?"

Michael looks almost violently alarmed, but Pete doesn't have time to explain that this whole thing is just some stunt by a suck-ass bunch of losers who should never be allowed to torture musical instruments.

"You walked out in the middle of the set!" the guy yells. "You're a dick!"

"You sent me a bogus demo! Seriously, how stupid do you think I am? Like I wouldn't notice?"

It's a little disturbing that Pete has already come to the point in his life where he thinks things like, _bands today just aren't what they used to be_, but apparently this is exactly what's happened.

"You could have stayed for more than one song," the guy whines.

"Yeah, well, if the band on that demo had been playing, we would have stayed for the whole fucking show. Now what have you done with Patrick?"

"What you told us to! On your blog. You said a band that wanted to make it needed Patrick."

Pete has a moment of utter, freefalling regret that he ever thought it was a good idea to whore himself to the Internet.

"Fucking bullshit! I said you needed _a_ Patrick. Not _my_ Patrick."

"You're doing great keeping him on the line," Michael says into Pete's ear, and, hey, is that sarcasm? "Now get the demands."

"Okay, okay," Pete says into the phone, "just tell me what you want."

"We want to be the biggest damned band in the whole fucking world," the guy declares like a delusional, no-talent psychopath.

"Yeah, well, I want there to be no pictures of my dick floating around the Internet. You can't always–" Michael stops him with a hard look. "Motherfuckers," Pete curses under his breath.

"Insulting the kidnappers not exactly helpful," Michael points out, with a fresh dose of mockery.

But the guy doesn't seem to be paying attention to Pete anyway. He's too caught up in his own pathetic fantasies of greatness. "You're going to help us, Wentz. We want a meeting with somebody at Island, somebody with the power to deal."

Michael nods at Pete.

"Okay, sure, I can probably–"

"That's just for a start," the guy cuts him off. "We need an album. You can write us some lyrics, and Patrick can do the music and produce. And, and–"

Pete hears voices in the background, shouting out suggestions.

"Yeah, yeah, we want some Clan stuff. And advice about merchandising. And– What? Oh. Right. What brand of eyeliner do you use?"

"Guyliner," Pete mutters.

"And we want you to blog about us!" There are hoots of _fuck yeah_ and _you tell him_. "We want you to tell everyone you discovered the next Fall Out Boy! Or My Chem. Or…whatever. Just tell them we're fucking awesome!"

Pete's not much on drawing lines, but even he can occasionally be pushed too far. "Oh, fuck no. I'm not lying on my blog!"

"It's not lying! You never even gave us a chance. You guys sucked when you first started out. You've said it yourself in interviews."

"Dude, our sucking had potential. Your sucking just sucks."

Michael shakes his head, as if Pete is mentally deficient for not being able to string together five words without calling the kidnappers losers, but Pete doesn't _care_. They are losers! And not the lovable kind, either. Besides, Michael may be an expert on how to talk to kidnappers, but Pete knows how to talk to bands.

"Don't you fucking dare threaten Patrick, either," he tells the guy. "Because that's just going to prove to me that you don't give a shit about music. All you care about is being rock stars."

There's silence for a moment, and Pete has this dizzying stab of terror that maybe this is the time when his gut finally lets him down, in the worst possible way, because this is _Patrick_ for fuck's sake. For a moment he's sure he's going to throw up.

"Um," the kidnapper actually sounds sheepish, and Pete sucks in a breath, light-headed with relief. "I mean, yeah. We're not going to hurt Patrick. We just need to _borrow_ him, okay? Just help us out on this, and you can have him back. I swear."

Michael cocks his head, as if to say, _I can't believe that actually worked._

"Yeah, man, okay. Let's get this done." Pete falls into the familiar language of business, because it's easier not to freak out and start screaming if he pretends this is just any old deal. "I'll get a label guy down here tonight. You just need to tell me when and where."

"The Lotus Club. Eight o'clock. If you bring anyone but the record company guy–"

"Reassure him," Michael whispers.

Pete nods. "Hey, man, it's all about the music, right? Who else would I bring?"

"Um. Right. Exactly."

The guy sounds like he wants to believe Pete, at least.

"But I'm going to need something from you, too," Pete tells him.

Michael raises an eyebrow, all _bad idea, bad idea_.

"What?" the kidnapper's voice crackles with suspicion.

"Regular phone calls with Patrick."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" the guy's voice explodes in Pete's ear.

Somehow Pete manages not to say _yes_. "How else am I supposed to collaborate with him on your album? You think we make songs by not talking to each other?"

"If this is a trick–"

"It's not! He's my best fucking friend. Come on, man. I need visitation! Just give me two calls a day."

"One."

"_Two_," Pete insists stubbornly. "Do you want to be the biggest band in the whole fucking world or not?"

There's a pause and then an exasperated sigh. "Fine. We'll call you, but don't get any ideas. We took the GPS thingy out of Patrick's phone. You can't trace it. We saw that shit on CSI Miami."

"Whatever. Just as long as I get to talk to Patrick. Put him back on, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. But you'd better be at the club tonight."

"You know I fucking will be. Now give me Patrick."

"Um, so, hey." The clench in Pete's chest eases a little at the sound of Patrick's voice. "I guess we're not taking that time off from songwriting, huh?"

"Doesn't look like."

Patrick whispers into the phone, "These guys suck, dude. Seriously. I keep thinking if there was a you in the bunch at least I'd have something to work with."

Pete laughs humorlessly. "That's pretty fucked up then."

"Don't do that," Patrick says sternly. "You know I hate it when you do that."

_ImissyouImissyouImissyou_. Pete wants to blurt that out so bad it makes his throat hurt.

"Pete," Patrick's voice drops back down to a whisper. "Get me out of here, okay?"

Pete swallows hard, and all he can get out is, "Okay."

Then the kidnapper is back again. "That's one phone visit for the day. You get the other one after our meeting. _If_ I like what you have to say."

The line goes dead.

Pete just stands there numbly for a moment, and then he wants to throw the phone and shout until he's hoarse and maybe hit something. But he can't. He can't freak out. He promised Patrick he'd get him the hell out of there.

He finds his voice, "Should I call somebody at the label?"

Michael shakes his head. "The kidnappers only need to _think _ they're meeting with a music executive."

He turns to Loud Shirt, and Pete feels almost startled. He was so focused on Patrick he totally forgot the guy was still there.

"Sam, can you find out about this band for me? I need to know everything, where they work, where they live, everyone they're even remotely connected with. Maybe we can figure out where they've got Patrick."

"I'm on it, Mike." Sam claps Pete on the shoulder on his way out. "We'll have him back before you know it."

"Um. I guess I should–" Pete nods toward the door, although honestly he has no idea where to go or what to do with himself.

Michael shakes his head. "The kidnappers could decide it's easier to get what they want if they have both you and Patrick. We can't take the chance. You'll need to stay here where I can keep an eye on you."

"Can I get some stuff from the hotel? My computer and," he sniffs his armpit, "some clothes would probably be good."

"Sure. Give me your room key. Make a list of what you want. I'll have somebody pick it up for you."

Pete sits down again with the pen and paper, and Michael pulls out his phone, "Hey, Nate, I need a favor. Yes, it is important. Yes, right now. No, there isn't any money in it. That's why they call it a favor." He explains the details. "And I need to borrow the car this afternoon. Yes, you will get it back when I'm done. Yes, it does belong to you now. That's why I used the word 'borrow.'" He sighs heavily. "Yes, I am grateful. _Thank you_."

Pete watches curiously, and when Michael hangs up guesses, "Your brother?"

Michael's expression answers the question for him.

Pete can't help grinning. "Figured only family could ramp you up like that."

Michael shakes his head. "You have no idea."

It doesn't take long for the brother to show up. Michael takes him aside, gives him the hotel key and the list. The brother keeps shooting glances in Pete's direction, but he doesn't actually say anything. He leaves, and when he comes back later, he has Pete's suitcase and computer in tow.

"I thought it was easier just to get everything," he explains.

Pete nods. "Thanks, man. I really appreciate it."

"Hey, no prob. Um." Nate turns slightly pink and then pulls out an "Infinity on High" CD. "Would you mind?"

"Nate!" Michael says sharply.

But Pete waves him off. "No, dude. It's cool." He scribbles his signature on the CD insert and hands it back. "Here you go."

"Cool! Thanks so much."

Nate stares down at the CD like he can't believe his luck, and that never stops being weird. Pete's name scrawled on a piece of paper can actually make someone's day.

"Don't you think it's time you were going?" Michael prompts.

Nate gets a little huffy. "Hey, you're keeping my car, remember?"

"And here's some money for a cab." Michael holds out a twenty and glances meaningfully at the door.

Nate opens his mouth like he's going to argue, then shuts it again. He takes the cash, nods to Pete. "See you around, man."

That just leaves Pete and Michael, and they eye one another dubiously. It's going to be a long time until eight o'clock.

Finally Michael gestures toward the bathroom. "Feel free. Towels in the cabinet."

Pete nods, brings his suitcase with him, takes a much-needed shower, and changes into clean clothes. He feels at least a little less like crap after he's done. When he comes back out, Michael has the guts of a cell phone and some other electronic stuff spread across the counter. He's bent over it with an expression that reminds Pete strangely of Patrick, focused and intent, something he calls Patrick's mad scientist look. A wave of missing-Patrick vertigo washes over him.

To take his mind off it, Pete watches Michael work, toweling his wet hair. "It's not going to blow up, is it?"

"Nope," Michael says, concentrating on the delicate operation. "It's going to help us track the kidnapper's car back to wherever they've got Patrick."

"You know, I'd ask you how you learned all this stuff," Pete says in a deadpan, "but I wouldn't want you to have to kill me."

Michael actually smiles at this, and for a second, he looks completely human.

Then Pete's phone rings, and they're both instantly tense. Pete checks the number, shakes his head. Not Patrick.

"Hey, what's up?"

"_Peter_." Andy sounds like Pete's mom when he's left dirty dishes under his bed, and that can't possibly be a good thing. "What have you done to Patrick?"

"What– nothing. It's not my–" And then he realizes he should probably sound a little less defensive and a little more like, oh, say, _Pete Wentz_. "Fuck you, dude."

"Uh-huh," Andy says noncommittally. "So, if you haven't given Patrick brain damage or have him duct-taped to a chair somewhere, then why is he posting to his blog and sounding like a thirteen-year-old girl about some lame-ass band?"

"No offense to thirteen-year-old girls, naturally," Joe chimes in, because apparently Andy considered this important enough to break out the power of three-way calling.

"Naturally," Andy agrees. "I have nothing against thirteen-year-old girls. I just prefer Patrick not to sound like one."

"Fucking _fuck_!" Pete curses under his breath.

Michael looks up sharply from his work. "What?"

"They're _torturing_ Patrick!" Pete declares dramatically.

"Dude, who is that?" Joe wants to know.

Michael is up and at Pete's side in an eyeblink, his expression deadly serious. "How do you know Patrick is being tortured?"

Pete yanks up his laptop, types in the URL for the blog, whirls around and pushes the computer at Michael. "They're making him blog about shitty music. Those fuckers!"

"Pete?" Andy prompts in his _do you have something you want to tell me_ voice.

Pete sighs. "Okay, so maybe Patrick is just a little bit…kidnapped. By this band that I maybe, kind of, sort of dissed."

"That is so not cool," Joe feels the need to point out the obvious.

"_Pete_." Now Andy sounds like Pete's dad threatening to take away the car keys and ground him for the rest of his life, and that's seriously starting to creep him out.

"It's not my fault! Or, at least, not exactly. Come _on_. You guys know they had to pry Patrick out of my cold, roofied fingers."

"Have you called the police?"

"They said not to."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Of course, they said not to, Pete. They're kidnappers! That's what they say! How else are you planning to get Patrick back?"

"I've got people on it! And thanks for the concern about the roofying thing, by the way," Pete says sulkily.

"Please," Andy scoffs. "You pass out when you take cold medicine. Patrick is _kidnapped_."

"You've got people now?" Joe says admiringly. "How very young Hollywood of you."

"Fuck you, man."

"Get our singer back," Andy warns. "Get our singer back _soon_. Or I swear I'll come down there and kick your ass."

Pete snorts. "No, you won't, dude. You're a pacifist, remember?"

"Remember the part where you lost our lead singer?" Andy reminds him.

"Stop saying that!" Pete yells.

"YoulostPatrickYoulostPatrickYoulostPatrick," Andy chants and, seriously, what the fuck? Being obnoxious is _Pete's_ job.

"You really kind of did," Joe adds insult to…well, insult. _Et tu, Trohman?_

"Fuck you both." Pete takes a breath and lets it out. "I'll call you when I know something."

He hangs up and only then notices Michael glaring.

"_What_?" He rakes a hand through his hair.

Michael hands the computer back.

"We really need to work on your definition of 'torture,'" he says like a snarky little bitch.

"Dude, if you knew anything about Patrick, you'd realize how cruel and unusual this is." Pete gestures emphatically with the computer.

Whatever Michael might have said to this is pre-empted by his phone.

"Yeah, mom," he answers, looking to the ceiling like a long-suffering son. "Yeah, we talked about this, remember? The coffee pot is forty years old. It's probably time to– No, I can't come over right now and fix it. No. Mom– I'm in the middle of something."

"Hey, that's cool," Pete says loudly enough to be heard on the other end of the line. "I can tag along, meet the mom."

He figures he could use a distraction.

The face Michael makes at him is truly filthy. "Yeah, mom. I heard what my 'friend' said. Yes, I– Fine. Fine, okay? We're coming over." He starts to hang up, but his mother goes on talking a mile a minute. "We'll see you in ten minutes. Okay. _Okay_. Bye." He jabs at the end button.

"That's really cool that you help your mom out like that," Pete says sweetly.

Michael forces a smile. "If you're really lucky, maybe she'll tell you about her bunions."

Pete just laughs.

* * *

So, yeah, Patrick was in some pretty crappy bands back in his pre-Pete-Joe-Andy days. In the worst one, nobody could play an instrument but him. The lead singer was the king of the misheard lyric, _another turnip boy, the Ford stuck in the road_, just…no. Really the only reason the other guys even bothered was to meet girls who might actually sleep with them, not that they were all that successful at it.

That was a really good band compared to this one.

It's been a long–he's tempted to say century, but probably it's only been an hour of screeching and caterwauling and some truly ear-splitting feedback as the band-that-wasn't-the-band-on-the-demo tortures one after another of Patrick's favorite songs.

They finish up the latest assault on his love of music, and the singer, Brad, Patrick thinks his name is, smiles at him, kind of disturbingly like a puppy waiting to be petted. Apparently, Patrick is supposed to say something here.

"Um. So. That was…Saves the Day."

Or, you know, it was supposed to be. But, hey, _kidnapped_, so he keeps that to himself. And, seriously, Pete _so_ better be working really hard to get him out of here.

Brad's head bobs up and down enthusiastically, as if Patrick has paid them some huge compliment just by managing to recognize what that racket was supposed to be. "We learned it just for you, dude. You know, 'cause it was the first song you sang for Pete."

Patrick's not sure what he's supposed to say to this. Thank you, not so much.

Not for the first time, Patrick can't help thinking, _things like this are supposed to happen to Pete. I'm the boring one, seriously, ask anybody_. And then he has another flash of oh fuck, oh fuck that he handed over the password to his blog to this bunch of maniacs. But they asked for it–and, hey, _kidnapped_–so he'd given it up. Jesus. He hopes they haven't started a pop-punk-to-the-death (or, you know, to-the-pain) war with My Chem or Panic or something.

The bassist–Patrick never caught his name and thinks of him as the squirrelly little dude who's so not Pete Wentz. He leans in to Brad, and then Brad starts doing the aerobic head-nodding thing again. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We totally should–" He beams at Patrick. "Dude, it's a little rough, but we've been working on 'Grand Theft Autumn' and–"

"Oh, hmm," Patrick says quickly. "Maybe we should take a break?" And, hey, _kidnapped_, so he adds weakly, "You know, don't want to strain your voice."

Although, really, laryngitis would be a good sound for this guy.

Brad nods solemnly. "Good point, dude. Us singers got to take care of the pipes, right?"

They don't make him go back to the room with the cot, which is good, because Patrick may not be prone to claustrophobia, but that little cinderblock prison would put anyone's zen to the test. Their hideout is some kind of warehouse that's seen better days. Mostly it's empty, just their gear and a few metal folding chairs.

Their drummer, who looks nothing like Andy but appears to have copied his tattoos in fairly wholesale fashion, pulls a chair over for Patrick. "Take a load off, dude."

The rest of them drag over chairs of their own and circle around, watching Patrick like they're waiting for him to start cracking jokes or something, like they're all just guys in bands hanging out together. Patrick starts to wonder if he's the only one who remembers, oh, hey, _kidnapped_.

The guitarist sits down next to him, and Patrick thinks he could probably get a contact high going if he breathes too deeply. Why is it always guitarists? He totally doesn't know.

"Man, you want–" He digs a joint out of his pocket.

"No, thanks, that's– I'm good."

Too bad Joe isn't here, Patrick thinks, and then realizes what that would mean. He offers up a mental apology: _Um, yeah, no, sorry, dude._

"Patrick doesn't do drugs," the squirrelly little bassist who so isn't Pete Wentz pissily informs baked guitarist guy, as if Patrick isn't sitting right there.

Guitar guy shrugs. "Whatever."

He ambles off, no doubt in search of someone to toke up with, and squirrelly little bassist who so isn't Pete Wentz throws himself onto the chair beside Patrick, cutting a vicious "he's mine, back off, he's mine" glance at his bandmates. And seriously, this is the kind of crazy-ass obsession that _Pete_ is supposed to inspire, not Patrick. Didn't anyone get that memo?

The squirrelly little bassist leans into Patrick's space until they're brushing elbows and pretty much sharing the same oxygen supply, and hey, so he does have one thing in common with Pete. That's just awesome.

"I knew you weren't the one who wanted to dick us over, leaving the show like that. I told everybody. That's Pete. It's not Patrick. Didn't I tell you guys?" He looks to the drummer dude, who just shrugs, as if he's learned to ignore squirrelly little bassist when he goes off on some rant. "And, seriously, where does Wentz get off? That no-talent douche. Everybody knows the band is all you, Patrick. Dude, you totally need a new bassist." He bats his eyes, as if offering himself up for the job.

"Um. Yeah. No." _Fuck_ being kidnapped. Nobody bad-mouths Pete to Patrick's face. "Pete can play just fine, and there wouldn't be any Fall Out Boy if it weren't for him. All instrumental punk-pop, yeah, probably not going to get us too far. And, hey, I'm not saying I'm the best musician in the world, but anyone who thinks I'm, like, you know, pretty okay, has Pete to thank for that. Because he's made me the musician I am. And, seriously, why do people think I want to hear shit about Pete? What? You think I'm going to be all 'hey, you're right, Pete sucks, he's totally fired.' Yeah. Just. No."

He runs out of breath and realizes he's been, you know, kind of yelling at his kidnappers. Um.

Squirrelly little bassist has turned totally red in the face, and shit, this really is a pretty crappy time for a relapse of Patrick's old anger management issues.

"Dwarp, give him a break, okay?"

Patrick looks up, and there's the tall girl with the creepy smile from the night before, and, how fucked up is it that he's only here because he got peer-pressured into a Pink Flirtini?

"I have a right to my opinion, Gemma!" Dwarp proclaims indignantly.

"Dude, you're talking about his boyfriend." Gemma slants a sympathetic look Patrick's way.

"Um–" Patrick stutters.

He could say: you only think that because Pete tells anyone who'll listen that we're in love and getting married, but seriously, I've seen him propose to shoes he really likes. Then again, the look Dwarp is giving him has kind of a hopeful vibe to it, and Patrick has two thoughts about that: a) just…no and b) does no one else get that he's only here because he's _kidnapped_? He decides there's really no need to blurt out that Pete isn't kidding about that whole gay above the waist thing.

Dwarp mumbles, "Some douchebags have all the luck."

He slinks away, and Patrick breathes a little sigh of relief until Gemma plops down. Because, hey, _Pink Flirtini_! It doesn't exactly make him want to have a friendly chat with her.

"I'm Brad's girlfriend by the way," Gemma starts up cheerfully, like she has no concept that Patrick might be holding a grudge over, you know, _being drugged and kidnapped_. "So, Patrick, you seem like you're about a lot more than just being a rock star and shit. Am I right? Are you into what's going on?"

"Um, you mean–" He scrunches up his forehead. "What do you mean?"

"The big picture, dude. Thinking outside the military-industrial-entertainment complex box. A whole new paradigm. Getting this revolution moving."

He puzzles that over and thinks maybe…she's talking about politics?

"Oh. Um. So, yeah. I mean, I'm pretty liberal, and I like to do what I can. Although, you know, I'm not all that comfortable talking about it a lot in, like, interviews and stuff. That's more Pete's thing than mine."

Gemma shakes her, looking frustrated, like he's gotten the answer wrong. "No, dude, that's totally, you know, reality-based. Can't take down the system as long as you admit there is a system. Right? You gotta, you know–" She waves her arms dramatically. "You know?"

"Um. Okay?" he says uncertainly.

"Yeah, yeah, I thought you'd get it," she says excitedly. "We've got, like, a manifesto and everything. Okay, not written down and stuff. But, hey, I'd be happy to walk you through it–"

So, Patrick realizes, these are his choices. He can either listen to music that makes him wish he'd just go deaf already or hear 101 ways to start a non-reality-based revolution.

He looks around desperately for Brad.

"Oh, hey, weren't you guys going to play 'Grand Theft Autumn' or something?"

* * *

Nate's car turns out to be a classic Dodge Charger.

"Sweet," Pete says, buckling the seatbelt. "Your brother's got good taste."

"It was our father's."

Pete angles a glance at him. Michael's face is determinedly expressionless, but Pete senses a story there.

They ride in silence. Pete starts to squirm in his seat, drums his fingers on the dashboard. On the best of days, he's got so much restless energy it feels like he's going to vibrate right out of his own skin, and this is not the best of days. He reaches for the radio, fiddles with the dial, and hits on "About A Girl." His opinion of South Florida goes up a notch.

Michael turns it off with an aggressive twist of his wrist. Pete hums the chorus, biding his time, and when Michael is busy checking traffic, Pete flips the radio on again. It quickly turns into a battle of wills, off, on, off, on, until Michael shoots Pete a look that practically screams, _I will punch you in the face if I have to_. Pete has seen that look often enough from Patrick. He's learned to take it seriously.

The radio stays off. Pete stares out the window.

When that gets boring, about two seconds later, he shifts in his seat to look at Michael. "So, what's up with you and the hot chick? Fiona. That's her name, right?"

There's no visible reaction, but Pete knows when he's hit a nerve.

So he does what he does, pushes it a step further. "She's really, _really_ hot."

This earns him a quick, cutting sideways glance.

Pete holds up his hands. "Hey, I'm just saying."

He goes back to looking out the window, only now he's grinning.

They pull up in front of a house, the kind with plastic flamingoes in the yard. Pete likes the mom already. He trails Michael up the front walk. The door flings open, and a short, round blonde woman flies out, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

"Michael, you might not think the coffee maker is important, but it has sentimental value. Your aunt Rosie gave it to me and your father as a wedding gift, you know."

"I know," Michael says wearily. "I know. That's why I'm here. Mom, this is Pete."

"Oh, hello." She brushes her hair back from her face. "Any friend of Michael's is always welcome."

"Pete's more of a client, really," Michael says nastily.

Yep. Definitely hit a nerve.

The mom gives Michael a hard look. "Still welcome." She tilts her head at Pete. "Are you usually so pale? No, no, I didn't think so. Come on in. I'm sure Michael hasn't given you anything to eat except yogurt."

Pete follows her inside. "You've got a beautiful home here, Mrs.–"

"Westen. But call me Madeline. How do you feel about grilled cheese, Pete?"

Yep, he and the mom are going to get along just fine.

Ten minutes later, Pete is ensconced at the kitchen table with a sandwich fresh out of the skillet, a big bag of Ruffles, and a two-gallon bottle of Pepsi at his elbow. Michael has the coffeemaker disassembled on the counter, a little pinch between his eyebrows as he tinkers with it. Pete gets another flash of Patrick, huddled over GarageBand, making magic happen. His throat goes so painfully dry the grilled cheese nearly gets stuck.

Madeline sprawls in the chair next to Pete, lights up her third cigarette, and to take his mind off things, he starts regaling her with stories of his adventures on tour.

"Did someone make you jump off the top of those speakers?" She frowns. "You weren't pushed, were you?"

Pete shakes his head, holding back a smile. "Nah. It's just– this thing I do. You know, the crowd likes it. Usually I don't break anything."

"Michael went through a stage where he liked to jump off the top of the garage. I had to take away his Spiderman sheets. It scared me to death. You scared me to death, Michael." She raises her voice at him.

"Sorry, mom," he says automatically.

Madeline lets out an exasperated sigh, a sound Pete is all too familiar with from his own mother. "So, what did you do? You couldn't go on with the concert like that."

"Well, I probably _shouldn't_ have, but…" He makes a wry face. "Man, that hurt like a son of– a whole lot. But I got one of those rocker boots, so we didn't have to cancel any shows."

"Not even one?"

Pete shakes his head. "Couldn't let down the fans."

"What a responsible young man!"

Pete ducks his head, letting his bangs fall into his face. "Aw, thanks, Mrs. Westen."

"Madeline," she corrects him. "Here, have some more Pepsi." She tilts the bottle and fills his glass all the way up to the top. "Michael, did you hear that? Pete played with a broken foot, just so his fans wouldn't be disappointed."

"Pete's practically a saint, mom," Michael answers dryly.

This is tantamount to shouting "I dare you to be an asshole" in the world of Pete Wentz.

"Hey, Mrs. Westen." Pete smiles winningly. "I mean, Madeline. So I met…Fiona is her name, I think? She seems like a really cool girl."

Madeline nods as if she never plans to stop. "That's what I keep telling Michael. But will he listen?"

Pete widens his eyes for effect. "Oh, you mean Fiona and–"

"Not any more." Madeline shoots a baleful glance at Michael, who in turn scowls at Pete.

Pete rests his head on his hands. If Patrick were here, he'd actually be having fun.

"I still don't understand how you could let a wonderful girl like Fiona get away." Clearly, this not the first time they've had this conversation.

Michael's jaw clenches so tightly it looks like it hurts. "Mom, this really isn't a good time–"

"Well, when is it going to be a good time, Michael? At this rate, I'm never going to have grandchildren!"

Pete pulls the Ruffles bag closer, ready for some fun, but Michael's cell phone puts an untimely end to the show.

"Yeah, Sam, what'd you find out?" He listens intently, and his gaze flickers over at Pete.

Pete's stomach lurches, the sandwich threatening to come back up. He feels like the biggest jackass for dicking around while– _Jesus, let Patrick be okay. Just let him be okay. _

The conversation seems to go on forever, although it probably lasts less than a minute, all "yeah" and "okay" and "keep me posted," the kind of vague-ass nothing that's just crazy-making. By the time Michael finally hangs up, Pete's fingers are curled around the edge of the table so hard his knuckles have turned white.

"What?"

"Sam did some digging, found out the members of the band are also members of something called Revolution America. It's a small radical group, although no one seems very clear on what they're radical about. As far as we can tell, they spend most of their time selling pot. But it's possible that kidnapping Patrick means they're trying to ramp up their activities. "

Pete stares. Possibly his mouth falls open. "Seriously? I really thought they were totally full of shit."

Michael frowns. "You knew about this?" With the implied, _and you didn't think to tell me about it?_

Pete shakes his head. "No. Not really. Just– something they said in the note that came with the demo. That they wanted to be the world's biggest band because music starts revolutions. I thought they were riffing on Gerard." Michael's expression is completely blank, so Pete clarifies, "Gerard Way. He likes to say music saves lives." Still nothing.

"Oh." Madeline starts nodding. "My Chemical Romance, Michael."

Michael stares at her like he wonders who took his mother and left this woman in her place.

"The McCrary boy down the street–you know the one, Michael, comes to mow the grass? He was playing their music last time he was here, and I asked him about it, and he went on and on." She drops her voice confidentially. "I think he might have, you know, a bit of a thing for, not Gerard, the other one." She waves her hand. "The brother."

"Mikey?" Pete nods distractedly. "Yeah. That happens. So does this mean–" He looks almost helplessly at Michael. "Are they going to hurt Patrick?"

"There's no reason to believe that," Michael says carefully. "But it does add…a dimension. We should go, get ready for tonight."

"Oh, Michael, do you really have to rush off?" Madeline gets up, hands on her hips. "Pete didn't even get to finish his sandwich."

"It's business, Mom. Here you go. The coffee maker's all fixed."

Pete feels heavy-limbed and numb, like when the dosage is off on his meds. But he manages to stumble through thanking Madeline.

"You come back anytime," she tells him warmly.

Michael starts for the door, and Pete falls in behind him. Madeline shadows them the whole way. "I don't know why you don't bring your friends over more often, Michael. You know how much I like meeting new people."

She waves goodbye from the porch as they drive away.

Pete can't sit still in the car. He twists and untwists his hands in the hem of his hoodie, jiggles his leg up and down. He's got snatches of "Saturday" playing in his head. Jesus. _Patrick_.

"Were you bullshitting me back there about this group? Are they, like, fucking terrorists or something?" There's a pause while Michael chooses his words, and Pete snaps. "And don't talk to me like I'm the fucking client. I want the _truth_!"

"All right," Michael says levelly. "Sam didn't find any evidence this group has ever been violent, and my feeling is that we're dealing with the Three Stooges of radical activism. But zealots, even incredibly stupid ones, can be unpredictable. So we get Patrick away from them as soon as possible." Michael meets his eye. "Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. That's the plan."

Pete's heart slams against his ribs with sudden hope and the need for Patrick now, now, right fucking _now_. He has to grab onto something, anything, so he won't go crazy, and he reaches for the most convenient distraction.

"So, seriously, man, what's the deal with you and Fiona?"

Michael's eyebrows knit together almost comically. He's not the first person confused by Pete's zigzagging moods and conversational about-faces.

"Dude, I'm just saying. I don't get why you're not all over that."

"Uh-huh," Michael says perfectly unruffled, not at all what Pete was going for. "So why aren't you all over Patrick?"

This shuts Pete up, for a second at least.

"Told you. We're just–"

"Hey, it's none of my business," Michael says, so casually it's infuriating. "But you seem to spend about ninety percent of your life with him. Your nostrils flare, your eyebrows go up, and your eyes widen any time he's mentioned, all classic signs of attraction. And the way you talk about him sounds like you're talking about your wife." He flashes a smile at Pete. "I'm just saying."

There's nothing in any of this that comes as a particular surprise. Pete's _job_ is self-excavation, and he knows all the twists and turns in his own psyche. For self-preservation purposes, though, he's never allowed the words "I'm in love with Patrick" to congregate together in his head, and now that they're cuddled up all close and friendly, it feels like he's been punched in the gut by the painfully obvious.

"I promised his mom I'd keep him out of trouble," he mumbles lamely, picking at a hole in his jeans, unraveling the threads. "I just– I don't want to fuck him up, you know?"

There's a pause, and then Michael says quietly, "Yeah. I know."

* * *

_What the fuck is Pete doing?_ This is a thought that Patrick has, oh, about a million-billion times in the average day. But he can't remember it ever sounding more shrill in his head than it does right now.

"So, dudes," Brad beams at the rest of his band, "I'm heading off soon to meet Pete and this label guy. When I come back, we are so totally going to have a record deal!"

They do a group high five, and Patrick feels a little like the veggie burger they fed him for dinner is going to come back up. He's pretty sure there's no way Pete talked someone from Island into flying down here on a moment's notice. It's just like Pete to think he can bullshit his way through anything, although Patrick would like to believe he'd be, you know, maybe a little more careful with Patrick's _life_ riding on him.

God. He's never getting out of here.

"Hey, sorry, man," Brad tells him. "I've got to put you back in the other room while I'm gone. But when I get back we'll totally celebrate. You know, I was thinking we could open for you guys on your next tour, but then I started laughing. Because, seriously, we're going to be way too big by then. But maybe we can headline a tour together or something. It'd be cool to go on the road together, you know?"

He herds Patrick back into the cinderblock cell.

"Of course," the maniac ambition in his face dims a little, "I'm assuming that Pete comes through for us."

He narrows his eyes at Patrick, as if thinking up ways to make him pay if Pete fucks up, and that's just awesome. Really. Patrick wasn't sure his day could get any crappier.

Brad waves his hand. "Nah. What am I saying? He's going to come through. I mean, he does want you back, right?"

Patrick nods, because if there's one thing in the whole world that he can count on, it's this.

The too-big smile breaks out on Brad's face again. "Sweet. The next time I see you we'll be label-mates!"

He shuts Patrick up in the room, and there's the unhappy sound of the padlock snapping into place. Patrick flops down onto the nasty cot, stares at the bare, industrial wall, and tries to convince himself. Pete knows what he's doing, right? Jesus. Who is he kidding? Pete doesn't have a damned clue. Patrick is so very fucked.

His chest seizes up, and suddenly he can't breathe. It's like all those times before a show when he really thought he was going to pass out. _Don't freak out, don't freak out_, he thinks sternly at himself. Pete might fuck up on the small shit, but he always comes through on the big stuff. Not to mention that Patrick is practically Pete's personal property, at least as far as Pete is concerned. It's a notion that Patrick has never found exactly flattering, but in a situation like this, it might actually come in handy. Pete will put all that creepy-stalkery focus he's so good at into getting back what's rightfully his.

And then too…

Patrick's optimism gathers steam.

Pete is freakishly persuasive. Just look at all the stupid shit he's gotten Patrick to do over the years. _Bedussey_? Come on, he insists to himself. Brad doesn't stand a chance.

He gloats a little at the thought, until it occurs to him kind of bitterly that he wouldn't even be in this situation if Pete weren't so good at talking him into things. Coming down to Florida had _so_ not been his idea. They'd just gotten off tour, and Patrick's plan had been to hole up in his apartment and do nothing but work and try not to see another human being for as long as he could swing it. Touring was great, but there was always someone around, and Patrick really missed the concept of "alone."

Then Pete showed up at the door.

"Hey, get packed. We're going to Miami to see that band. You know, the one you liked."

Patrick shook his head vigorously. "Nope. I'm staying right here and working on music."

Pete's answer to this was to drag Patrick by the arm to the kitchen because he needed coffee, insisting the whole way how awesome it would be in Florida.

"Get some sun. Drink a few margaritas. Hear some music. We need a break before we start on the new album. _You_ need a break, Trick. Trust Dr. Wentzy on this."

Patrick sighed and made one last ditch effort, "Can't you get somebody else to go?

Pete shook his head, sipping at his coffee.

"Why not?"

Pete grinned. "Because you're my favorite." He leaned in and kissed Patrick softly, sweetly on the lips.

Patrick feels a wave of warmth just remembering it, warmth that curls low in his belly…and yeah, he needs to stop thinking about that right now. Jerking off to thoughts of Pete is a bad idea at the best of times, and, you know, _kidnapped_, so not the best of times, like, at all.

He stares up at the ceiling and lets out his breath and thinks unsexy thoughts. Dick Cheney and polar bears with the Arctic thawing out all around them and how that squirrelly little bassist so isn't the person he's trying really hard not to think about. Jesus. He's been doing this for too long, working so hard to keep his Totally Platonic flag flying, while Pete does everything in his power to make that just as fucking difficult as it can be, kissing Patrick and hanging all over him and sending him a love letter in pretty much every song. There are times when Patrick is convinced that Pete is the slinky-hipped karmic payback for some, like, _atrocity_ Patrick committed in another life.

But the thing is: he's _Patrick's_ slinky-hipped karmic payback. And if Patrick can just see him again, Pete can crawl all over him and tell every reporter they talk to that they're in love and going to Canada and plan to raise many adorable, vegan Wentz-Stumplettes and never mean a word of it. Patrick will be fine with that. He really, really will. Shit, he'll be fucking grateful. Just–

_Pete_.

* * *

Using an untrained civilian in a sensitive operation is never a spy's first choice, but there are times when there's just no way around it. Michael has learned the hard way that there are three key strategies for keeping a civilian-assisted op from blowing up in your face: Inform. Reassure. Empower. And then pretty much close your eyes and hope for the best.

Pete Wentz soon proves to be a one-man argument against the "empower" part of the equation. Michael doesn't especially need pointers on playing a music executive. He's done it before, and the day he can't outthink an opponent as apparently dimwitted as these kidnappers is the day he retires for good. The point is to distract Pete, to give him some harmless control over something. He's expecting a quick primer on bands today or the rundown of his record label's politics, anything but the fashion show it quickly devolves into. Three outfits later, and Pete is still cocking his head and wrinkling his forehead critically.

"It says _I sell farm equipment_."

The one before this had declared _day trader on the way to bankruptcy court,_ or so Pete had claimed.

"Maybe a shirt without a collar." He taps his chin, considering.

Michael opens his mouth, sorely tempted to point out that the jeans hanging off Pete's bony hips look suspiciously like he borrowed them from someone's little sister, and as far as Michael is concerned, his sparkly hoodie says _homeless person squatting in an old glitter factory_.

"You said you wanted to look the part," Pete reminds him.

Michael breathes out slowly. "Fine. But this is the last one."

On the way back to his closet, he wonders if perhaps he should empower Pete out the nearest window.

By the time he returns in jeans, t-shirt and black jacket, Pete is perched on top of the vanity in the bathroom, straightening his hair with a flat iron. He's lost interest in his game of human paper dolls apparently, because he just glances distractedly at Michael and shrugs.

Michael grits his teeth and reminds himself that people often express worry in remarkably annoying ways. Pete is just more annoying than most.

"Let's go over the rules again," Michael prompts him.

"Act natural," Pete answers by rote. "Follow your lead."

Michael nods. "Most importantly, let the kidnapper believe he's going to get what he wants."

Pete finishes up with his hair and leans in close to the mirror to line his eyes. "So, no mentioning how much his band sucks then?"

"That would be something you'd want to avoid," Michael says sardonically.

"What I don't understand is why we can't just grab this guy and make him tells us where Patrick is."

He smudges the black line with his finger, and suddenly Pete's eyes seem darker, more bottomless than they actually are. Possibly this is something Michael shouldn't be noticing. Pete's gaze meets his in the mirror, expectant, waiting for an answer.

"You never want to up the stakes if you don't have to," Michael rattles off the explanation automatically, these tactics as natural to him as breathing. "The kidnappers aren't professionals. They won't be anticipating counter measures. Our contact will show up tonight in his own car. Sam and Fi are staking out the parking lot, and they'll plant the tracking device. Sooner or later, he'll lead us to where they have Patrick."

"And if it doesn't work?" Pete looks back over his shoulder at Michael.

"It will," he says confidently.

"But–"

"Don't," Michael cuts him off. "Leave the strategizing to me. You just worry about doing your part. It's natural to be nervous, but you really need to act like yourself. The kidnapper needs to feel that this is just about a music deal. Anything that seems out of place could spook him."

Pete nods. "I figured. That's why I'm–" He gestures with the lip gloss wand. "Getting ready to go out like I'm not terrified my best friend is going to be killed because I'm a stupid jackass who pissed off the wrong band."

"Nothing's going to happen to Patrick," Michael says firmly.

He catches Pete's gaze in the glass, and there's nothing even remotely held back in Pete's expression, those bottomless eyes practically begging Michael. To be right. To make it all better. Something. Anything. Suddenly, the sense of bodies and heat, the smell of sweat and Axe spray is overwhelming in the small space. Michael isn't even sure why he's still standing there.

The next instant, it's as if a switch is flipped. That painful honesty is gone, and the mischief is back.

"Hey, dude, you could use some–" Pete turns, dabs lip gloss at Michael's mouth.

Michael catches his wrist, fends him off. Pete grins like a lunatic.

"Is this what Patrick has to put up with?" Michael asks.

The grin fades instantly, as if Pete has had cold water thrown in his face, which was the point. The last thing Michael needs is distraction.

"A lot more probably," Pete says faintly. "He is my favorite person to drive nuts."

The scent of fear gets stronger, sour and uncomplicated, until it's all Michael is aware of.

He takes a step back. "We should go."

The club's parking lot is nearly full when they arrive. A first-time kidnapper, even a stupid one, would be cautious, get there early, keep an eye out for cops. Michael hits number two on his speed dial. "Sam. You got it?"

"Yep, Mike. Had no problem spotting him from the pictures we have of the band. Pulled the old staggering lush routine. Works every time. Our boy was way too busy cursing me out to notice Fi planting the tracker."

"Drunken lush routine, my ass," he hears Fiona scoff in the background. "I was in and out of there before you so much as slurred a word."

"Oh come on, Fi. I mean, hey, you're good. Okay. Very good. But the drunken lush routine–"

"Good work, guys," Michael interjects and snaps the phone closed.

"Show time?" Pete tries to sound casual, mostly fails, twisting the sleeve of his hoodie nervously around his fingers.

"Everything's set," Michael assures him. "You're going to do fine."

Inside, Michael scans the room, memorizes the layout, and finds the exits. He checks the crowd for anybody who stands out. A first-time kidnapper is nervous, will probably bring some friends along. They're not hard to spot. Three Stooges really does about sum it up.

Pete heads for the bar, orders a beer. "You said I should relax," he says when Michael gives him a look.

"Which is different than getting drunk," Michael points out. "Do you see the guy we're supposed to meet?"

Pete cranes his neck wildly as he looks around.

"Asking you to be subtle would be a waste of time, wouldn't it?" Michael deadpans.

"Seriously, dude. Do you want me to act natural or not?" Pete lowers his voice to a whisper, "Other side of the bar. What do we do?"

"Just let him come to us."

It doesn't take long before the guy gets up and starts pushing through the crowd towards them. He's thin and weasely looking, stubbled jaw, rumpled clothes, hair almost colorless, falling greasy and lank into his face. Michael bets he smells bad, too. Pete gets more tense the closer the guy gets, and unfortunately, it's not nervousness. He's practically vibrating with rage.

"Hey man," the guy says, smiling like they're all old friends. "I wasn't sure if you'd make it."

Michael winces inwardly, expecting this to set off a flash fire of ranting from Pete, _don't you fucking get how important Patrick is to me_, blowing the plan right out of the water.

But Pete just plasters on a PR-dream of a smile, more capable of bullshitting than Michael has given him credit for. "Hey, dude, you know how stoked I am about your music. This is Michael, the guy I told you about from the label."

Michael holds out his hand. "Good to meet you. Pete can't stop talking about your band."

"Brad." The guy is a little slow to shake, Michael notices, still trying to be cautious.

Time to shift into high gear.

"So, Brad, I hear we have some competition from Reprise. Let's sit down and talk about why you want to sign with us."

Michael sweeps him off to a private booth, spewing flattery and empty promises. Brad nods along to every word like a bobble-head doll. Pete trails behind, rolling his eyes at Michael when Brad isn't looking.

They sit. Michael doesn't stop talking. Pete does his best impersonation of listening like he cares. Brad's eyes get bigger and bigger and finally start to cross, overwhelmed by the pictures Michael is painting of screaming crowds and Madison Square Garden and the cover of _Rolling Stone_.

"So, we're good, right? We're all good. You're gonna sign with us. Right? Right? Tell me I'm right, Brad," Michael spits it out rapid-fire, leaning aggressively into Brad's space.

Brad blinks, a starry-eyed deer caught in the imaginary limelight. "Yeah, yeah, man. We're good. We're…fucking great!" He breaks into a ridiculous smile.

"I knew we could do business." Michael snaps his fingers at the cocktail waitress, who gives him the kind of look that usually goes with a switchblade to the ribs. Good for her, he thinks.

Out loud, "A bottle of Cristal, sweetheart. We've got some celebrating to do." He winks lewdly, like every bad cliché.

Pete ducks his head to hide a smirk.

Brad is the audience bad clichés are made for. "Oh, hell yeah!"

The champagne comes, and they chink glasses.

"Here's to all the platinum records we're going to be putting up on the wall," Michael toasts.

Pete chokes on his champagne, probably from laughing.

"So, you're working on an album, I hear," Michael breezes on. "Patrick's producing? That's good, good. We'll want you out touring immediately. That's not going to be a problem, is it?"

"No, no!" Brad's face is as flushed from all the attention as a drunk after a two-day bender. "Touring would be so fucking cool! But hey, hey, I've still got some questions. Will there be merchandising? I mean, we're gonna need merchandising, obviously. A band like ours? Can't disappoint the fans. And what about publicity? _Rolling Stone_ is a start, but we gotta be out there, you know? Like _seriously_ out there. And when do we play SNL? 'Cause we're really gonna want to do that, okay? Like as soon as possible."

Fortunately, Pete isn't drinking anything at the moment. Otherwise there would no doubt be champagne spewing out his nose.

Michael plasters on the smarmy smile that has always served him well. "Yeah, Brad, yeah, I like the way you're thinking. But I think we need to set our sights even bigger. Much, much bigger."

Brad's eyes are as wide as saucers. "How much bigger?"

Michael throws his arms open wide.

Brad starts to squirm in his seat like a kid who has to go to the bathroom. "Oh, dude. Dude. I gotta–" He waves his hand. "The rest of the band. I promised I'd call, let them know– Be right back."

He bounces up from the booth, goes off to find a quiet corner to make the call.

"We're being watched," Michael says in Pete's ear. "Stay in character."

Pete's answer to this is to kiss Michael on the cheek.

"The character where I'm an executive at your record label," Michael clarifies.

Pete curls a hand around his shoulder. "If there's anybody in the band who's not a complete moron, they're going to wonder how I got you to agree to sign them without hearing them play for yourself." He kisses Michael's neck. "So I'm answering the question."

Pete's breath is warm against Michael's jaw. It lingers there.

"Not bad for a civilian," Michael says, his voice a little rougher than he'd like it to be.

He feels Pete's smile against his neck. "You only think I'm a civilian because you don't spend much time on the Internet."

Brad comes back to the table, practically skipping, and slips into the booth. "So, the band says hi. They're totally stoked."

Michael nods. "Good, good, that's what I like to hear. I'll want to meet them, of course. I've got this thing with Jay-Z, need to fly out in the morning, but I can make it back down near the end of the week. I'll bring the papers with me, and we can get this thing going. How's that sounding, Brad?"

Brad swipes a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Just– Wow. _Fuck_!"

"Great, great." Michael pulls out his wallet, slides a business card with his fake title and actual cell number across the table. The last thing he needs is one of these dimwits calling up the label and asking for him. "I'll be in touch."

Pete is still pressed up against him, and Michael dips his head, says in a bedroomy voice, "You ready to–"

"Yeah, Mike, yeah." Pete slides out of the booth, all loose-hipped eagerness.

Michael follows, pretending not to see when Brad gives Pete the thumbs up. Mission accomplished, apparently. He rests his hand intimately on the small of Pete's back, and they start to walk away.

Brad calls after them, "Hey, Pete, say hi to Patrick for me when you talk to him."

A message. _I like what I heard._ A good thing, except for the way it makes Pete stop in his tracks, a look crossing his face like World War III is about to break out. Michael digs his fingers into Pete's hip, and after a second, Pete gives in and keeps going

Outside, Michael keeps Pete close at his side, partly because he doesn't know who might be watching, partly because he doesn't know what Pete might do. Pete doesn't complain. He moves on auto-pilot, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Michael drives them back to the hotel. "It doesn't look like anyone's following us, but just in case, we need to keep up appearances. Both of us will stay in your suite tonight."

Pete nods distractedly. He's staring at his phone as if he can make it ring with the power of his mind.

When they get to the room, Michael makes Pete wait outside while he does a quick check. It's clear. Pete trudges inside and slumps on the couch, phone clutched to his chest.

"It went okay tonight?"

Pete means it to come out a statement, Michael thinks, but he can't quite keep the need for reassurance from creeping in.

Michael nods. "Just as we'd–" His phone rings. It's Sam. "Yeah?"

"Brad's just leaving the club."

"Keep an eye on him, but don't get too close," Michael tells him.

He can hear Sam relaying the instructions to Fiona, and then her voice crackles in the background, "Tell Michael I don't need any lessons on how to follow someone."

Michael feels his shoulder blades relax just a fraction, because they're his team and they're on it. He's not going to have to look into panicked dark eyes and explain that Patrick's not coming back like he promised.

He closes the phone and is about to fill Pete in when his phone starts ringing. There's no doubt who it is, not with the desperate hope that lunges in Pete's eyes. He picks up and words come streaming out of him, "Are you okay? Have they done anything to you? They're not trying to make you eat meat, are they? God, I miss you. I missyoumissyoumissyou…"

Pete heads down the hall to one of the bedrooms, the words growing more muted until the door closes and they're blotted out altogether. Michael is glad. Other people's intimate conversations make him only slightly less uncomfortable than his own.

He settles onto the couch and waits. But Sam doesn't call back, and Pete doesn't come out of his room. The passing seconds have that surreal underwater quality time gets when nothing is happening. Finally, Michael gets up again and drifts down the hall, because he doesn't know what's going on. That's not how you run an op. He hesitates outside the door. Now that he's this close he can hear the low murmuring of Pete's voice.

Michael pushes open the door, steps inside. For a moment, he can't locate Pete. There's just his voice drifting in the air, the bed empty, same with the couch and chairs. Michael walks further into the room and finds him at last, wedged into the small space between the nightstand and headboard.

"Me too, me too," Pete says softly. "Trick, I really–" And then he blinks, dazed, before his expression twists into something that could cut. "I fucking hate you!"

Which means, Michael knows, that Patrick is gone, and Pete is talking to dead air.

"He okay?" Michael asks.

"For now," Pete says dully.

The platitudes line up in Michael's head for the choosing. _Just stay positive_ and _We're doing all we can_ and _This whole thing will be over before you know it_. He's said them all before.

His phone interrupts. "Yeah, Sam?"

He listens to the update, and Pete watches intently, and the moment Michael hangs up, he demands, "What?"

"It's nothing to get excited about," Michael tries to short-circuit the reaction he knows is coming. "We tracked Brad to a residence, but there's no sign of Patrick there. That's not unexpected. He'd want to play it safe, make sure no one was following–"

"Whose house?" Pete asks, with the kind of calm that comes before an explosion.

"His mother's."

"Wow, Mike. You found Brad's _mom_. That's just–" He clenches his jaw. "That's just fucking _awesome_ work there, man."

"Brad's their ringleader," Michael tells him patiently. "He will go back to wherever they're keeping Patrick. It's just a matter of time."

Pete launches himself up from the floor, his hands catching Michael's shoulders, shoving him hard. "You fucker! 'We'll get Patrick back tonight, tomorrow at the latest'. Sound fucking familiar?"

Michael grabs Pete's wrists, forces his arms down to his sides. "Just calm down. This doesn't mean we're not–"

But Michael should realize by now that telling Pete to calm down is like waving red in front of a bull. Pete's eyes go bright with violence, and he lunges, jaw set, fists up. A hundred forty pounds of fury is no match for field-tested hand-to-hand combat skills, but trying to stop Pete without hurting him is trickier. Michael stands his ground, a brick wall deflecting blows. Pete flails away, more and more frustrated, his chest heaving as he growls _motherfucker_. Michael dodges swinging elbows and waits for Pete to burn through his terror. This is what happens with most people in these situations.

Of course, Pete Wentz is not most people. Michael isn't sure why he keeps forgetting this. Pete stills, and Michael thinks _finally_, but then Pete grabs Michael by the collar, catching him off balance. Michael stumbles, and Pete surges, mouth grinding against his, sharp teeth sinking into his lip. Michael can taste his own blood, and then Pete's tongue is trying to push down his throat, all spit and insistence and daring Michael to do something about it.

Throwing Pete up against the wall, forcing an arm to his throat until he's wheezing will just be giving him what he wants, Michael knows. He does it anyway, his patience slipping away like sand. Pete's head hits the wall hard enough that Michael feels the vibration of it in his arms, beneath his feet.

"Fuck or fight," Pete chokes out. "'s all good."

He manages to duck his head, just a little, just enough to swipe his tongue messily over Michael's hand, the hand that's pressed into his trachea. Because he wants Michael to hurt him. Because–

Michael doesn't let go, because Pete is one hell of an unpredictable little mood swing waiting to happen, but he does relax the pressure against his throat. "It's not your fault Patrick was kidnapped. The people who took him saw him as a means to an end, and they're the only ones responsible for what's happened."

Pete's chest hitches. His eyes have been flashing demented fury this whole time, and now they go even brighter, only in a different way. A truly horrifying thought crosses Michael's mind, _don't let him cry, just don't let him cry._

Once again, he underestimates Pete's persistence, or utter lack of self-preservation, or possibly both. Because suddenly Pete is back in Michael's face, scrape of stubble against Michael's cheek. "Seriously," Pete slurs, biting kisses onto Michael's lips. "Fuck me. Hit me. Just– _something_."

Michael forces him back against the wall, grips Pete's jaw in his hand, thumb beneath his chin, digging in. The human throat is a landscape of vulnerability. Just a few pounds of pressure here or there and it's all over. This is what experience has taught Michael. Experience that has filed him down until he is all smooth, deadly edges. Nothing surprises him anymore, not this certainly, fucking or fighting, the same story since the beginning of time. By all rights, at this point in Michael's life, things like loneliness, like desire shouldn't even exist for him anymore.

He bites Pete's lip, because it seems only fair. The taste of different blood in his mouth balances things out in a strange way. Pete is caught off balance for maybe a second. Clearly he expected Michael to come up swinging. But Pete is a marvel of knee-jerk reactions, and he's kissing back the next instant, trying to climb Michael like a tree. Michael's hands close around Pete's arms, pushing and pulling, a little bit like he wants to tear Pete apart. And maybe he does a little bit, because Patrick may not be Pete's fault, but Michael does blame him for this.

Pete shoves Michael away, just enough to strip off his hoodie and T-shirt. "I want you to fuck me." He grapples with Michael's shirt, manages to get it up over his head. "But first."

He sinks to his knees, grabs Michael's belt, hands rough and more than a little desperate as he pushes at Michael's zipper. He goes down like he's trying to choke himself on Michael's cock, like that's what he needs. Michael is happy to oblige, hands in Pete's hair, tugging too hard, pulling Pete in to every thrust. Pete gurgles, but it sounds nothing like _stop_. His tongue does dirty, tricky things, as if driving Michael insane is also something he needs.

Michael closes his eyes and doesn't think about anything at all. Experience has taught him.

Eventually, Pete pulls off Michael's cock with a wet, obscene pop. "Don't come. You still have to fuck me."

He scrambles to his feet, pushing his jeans and underwear down his legs, kicking them away. He yanks open the nightstand drawer, pushes lube and condoms into Michael's hands.

"Don't dick around getting me ready. Just put it in. I can take it."

Pete lies down on his stomach, shoves a pillow beneath his hips, and spreads his legs.

Michael opens the wrapper, rolls on the condom, slicks up his cock. He has no idea how long he's been hard. There's a part of him that feels disembodied, watching from a distance as he makes a train wreck out of this job. The rest of him feels hot all over, a burning in his stomach as he climbs onto the bed and makes a place for himself between Pete's splayed thighs.

He braces a hand on Pete's hip and presses his cock against Pete's hole. Pete tenses as Michael pushes in, but he doesn't say stop. So Michael keeps going until Pete is moaning and twisting beneath him, a sheen of sweat on his back, and Michael is panting and shaking and all the way inside.

There are spasms along Pete's back, no doubt because it hurts, but he takes a deep breath and lets it out. His shoulders drop, and his entire body just relaxes, like he's thrown up his hands and let go, freefalling into the experience. Like he doesn't know the definition of the word "caution." Michael can't remember, can't even imagine anymore, what that's like, and it sparks a resentment he didn't even know he had. He pulls out and shoves back in. Pete needs to feel something, and Michael is going to make sure he does.

Pete groans. "Come oooooon. Do it. Fuck me."

It's the sound track of all the sex that Michael has ever had, and just like that, the resentment is gone, as mysteriously as it came. Michael sets a rhythm, deep, long, unhurried strokes. Because it's just sex, not punishment or redemption or anything else.

Pete works a hand underneath his own body, hips jerking in time to Michael's thrusts. He buries his face in a pillow, and words stream out of him. Muffled, but Michael doesn't need to hear to know, that it's really just one word, one name, repeated again and again.

Michael presses his forehead to Pete's shoulder, closes his eyes. He runs a hand along warm, smooth skin, the delicate dip of the back, and he could pretend, too. Slender strength under him, tight heat around his cock, and it would be easy enough. Except that experience has taught him how dangerous pretending can be, especially to himself. And sublimation isn't just sex.

He pulls out abruptly, flips Pete over. Pete comes up with fists flying, eyes hard and bright, serious about punching Michael in the face, at least until Michael shoves his knees back to his chest and sinks into him again.

"Fuck!" Pete arches up.

The surprised hiss in the word is gratifying. Michael pulls out and shoves back in even harder.

"Yeah. Do it, _Michael_." Pete's eyes sparkle in the dim light, his hard smile edged with sarcasm. "Fucking fuck me."

Michael slips his hands beneath Pete's body, lifts his hips. Pete sucks in his breath and bites his lip and jerks his own cock. He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat, and that makes Michael pound into him faster, almost brutally hard.

"Fuck!" Pete cries out, and then his ass is clenching around Michael's cock, and there's warm-wet spreading between their bodies.

Michael squeezes his eyes closed and comes.

The afterwards is all instinct: roll over, tie off the condom, get out of bed, methodically gather up his clothes, escape, escape. Because it's just sex, and it's over now. Michael is glad to know that whatever evidence he's leaving behind on Pete's skin is hidden in ink.

Pete lies sprawled where Michael left him, boneless and heavy-lidded, his sleepy dark eyes following Michael as he moves toward the door.

"Let's just–" Michael starts, stops.

Pete shrugs. "'s just sex. Shit happens."

His wide yawn slurs the words.

In the other bedroom, Michael takes a shower, standing beneath the hot spray until the scent of sex is erased from his skin. He dresses, ignoring the bed on his way back out to the living room. He checks his gun, charges his phone, stretches out on the couch and stares up at the ceiling. Mistakes aren't something a good operative can afford to ignore, because then they'll just happen again. But this, tonight…this isn't so much a mistake as a bout of temporary insanity. Michael puts it away and rehearses scenarios for the rescue, waiting for Sam's call.

It comes before dawn, the sun not even a hint on the horizon. Michael has put the phone on vibrate, specifically so Pete won't hear it. He keeps his voice down while he gets the details, an abandoned warehouse out in Dade County, surrounded by a fortune in cannabis plants. Sam runs down the layout, the number of kidnappers, the exact location inside the building where Patrick is.

"I'll be there in half an hour," Michael tells him. "Think you can line up a diversion?"

Sam laughs. "Fi already has the gas can out. You know how she enjoys arson. We should have half the county high by the time you get here."

Michael should say something deadpan and hang up, but a picture suddenly flashes through his head: smooth, tan skin, the delicate line of spine. It's Pete, but it really would have been so easy to pretend.

"Hey, Mike, you there?"

Michael knows Sam well enough to understand what he's really asking: _you okay_?

"Yeah, Sam. Good plan. I'll see you soon."

He hangs up, and in the scant minute he's been on the phone, Pete has materialized, as if alerted by some mysterious Patrick-radar. He looks nearly as wrecked as when he'd first shown up at Michael's door.

Before Michael can get a word out, Pete glares. "Not without me. So don't even."

Michael considers explaining all the reasons why this isn't a good idea, and then more seriously, knocking Pete on the head and leaving him passed out on the floor where he'll be no trouble to anyone.

Finally, he settles for, "Fine, but just remember any screw up could get Patrick killed. So when I tell you to do something, you'd better be listening."

Pete turns a sickly shade of gray and follows Michael silently down to the car.

It's early enough that there's hardly any traffic. They speed out of the city. The houses start to thin, and they pass flat stretches of farmland. When Michael spots smoke curling on the horizon, he knows they're close. He pulls out his phone to dial 911.

"Oh, hey, how ya'll doin'?" he puts on his best slack-jawed drawl. "I'm out here in my truck on 997 near Redland, and I can see flames and smoke something awful. Somebody's field is burning up down here. Growin' some of them funny herbs too by the smell of things, if you know what I mean. Huh-huh-huh. Anyway, ya'll better hurry on out here before these dang potheads burn down the whole county."

He snaps the phone closed on the operator telling him to hold the line. Pete is staring at him like he's never seen him before.

"We need to get in quick, get out, before the police arrive," Michael outlines the plan. "We want the kidnappers caught by surprise while they're trying to save the marijuana."

"How do you know they won't run away before the cops get there?" Pete asks in a scratchy voice.

"They'll be too greedy to be smart. That's what we're counting on. If all goes according to plan, they'll be put away for the drugs, and Patrick never has to be mixed up in any of it."

Pete scrunches up his forehead. "What if they confess to kidnapping him?"

"Hopefully, they're not that stupid. But even if they are, I highly doubt anyone will believe them. They'll just look like they're trying to get more publicity for whatever their cause is."

They round another bend in the road, and Fiona's car is right where it's supposed to be, pulled off onto a side road, half hidden by magnolia trees.

"Stay here," Michael tells Pete.

He gets out, goes over. Fi rolls down the window.

She eyes him for a moment. "You're looking very morning-after, Michael."

This is always the problem with Fiona. She sees too much.

"What's the situation?" he asks tersely.

Sam's eyes go a little wide, but he gets right to business, "Well, we got their attention all right. Everyone's out trying to save the crop, except one guy they left to keep an eye on Patrick. No guns that we've seen. And, hey, Fi got you a little present."

Fiona reaches around in the back seat and comes up with a taser.

"Don't say I never gave you anything." Her mouth curves into the not-very-sweet smile that Michael will always equate with being naked and under her, his wrists tied to a cheap motel headboard.

"Thanks," Michael manages.

Sam half smiles, sympathetically. "The side door takes you right to where they have Patrick. We'll go around the back, in case our merry band of pot-growers wises up."

Michael nods, turns on his heel, goes back to the car. Pete fixes big, demanding eyes on him.

"Almost there," is all Michael tells him.

He follows Fi's car down the muddy road. They pull off and park just before the warehouse comes into sight. Sam and Fi jog around to the back of the building. The sunlight glinting off the gun in Fi's hand is dementedly cheerful.

Michael assumes that Pete will have enough sense to stay put, but three paces down the road, he feels a presence. He spins, grabs Pete by the arm, drags him bodily back to the Charger. Only the need for stealth keeps him from slamming the door to make a point.

He skims the perimeter, staying out of the warehouse's line of sight until he's ready to make a break for the side door. It's locked, but not hard to get in. The door has a convenient window in it. Michael slips out of his jacket, wraps it around his arm, and breaks the glass with his elbow. There's no shattering, just a delicate tinkling as the shards fall. Years of experience. Michael flips the lock, lets himself in, and steals down the corridor. The place is so empty it echoes, and Michael hears breathing long before he sees the shaggy headed, half stoned excuse for a guard outside the padlocked room where Patrick is being kept.

Michael walks noiselessly up to the foldout chair where Shaggy Hair is slumped.

"Can you help me? I'm trying to find the Everglades," Michael says.

Shaggy Hair practically jumps out of his skin, the metal chair skidding on the concrete floor with a loud, percussive scrape as he scrambles to his feet.

"Hey–"

Michael lifts his arm, and Shaggy Hair doesn't get to finish the sentence before the taser drops him.

Tools lie scattered here and there, holdovers from the days when this place was used for some sort of licit commerce. Michael picks up a wrench, bashes at the padlock until it breaks. He takes his gun out of his waistband, opens the door cautiously just in case, but there's only one person inside, presumably Patrick, huddled on a stained cot, pale and rumpled, with strands of red hair peeking out of a trucker cap.

"Pete sent me," Michael explains.

Patrick blinks, a little disbelievingly. "_Pete_ did?"

Any moment now, Michael knows, they'll hear sirens in the distance, an armada of Dade County police and firefighters descending on them.

"We need to go." He reaches for Patrick's arm, guides him up and out of the room.

Patrick stumbles when he sees Shaggy Hair laid out on the floor. "Is he–"

"No." Michael hurries him down the corridor.

Outside, he keeps Patrick shielded with his body, his gun raised. They round the corner of the building, into the bright glare of the rising sun, and there's a familiar messy-haired silhouette stumbling toward them, then running, right out in the open where anyone could have a gun trained on him.

_Idiot_, Michael thinks.

Patrick draws in a sharp breath and utters a soft, "Pete."

For just a moment, maybe Michael doesn't blame Pete quite so much for not staying in the car.

* * *

The day after one of Pete's seemed-good-at-the-time ideas feels a lot like a hangover. The daylight makes everything too blisteringly clear. His mouth tastes dry. Whole patches of the night before are kind of staticky and lost like someone dubbed over his memory. Not that he really needs to remember specific details, because every time he moves, he gets the picture. Jesus his ass is sore. That little realization starts up a replay of last night's sound track, _fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmetilican'tsitcan'tstand_. Really, he doesn't know why he does these things, why he thinks he enjoys pushing people until they snap. It always kind of freaks him out after the fact.

And now he's waiting, waiting, waiting for Patrick, alone in the car and feeling like he's going to come out of his skin. He pulls his feet up onto the seat, presses his forehead against his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking like disturbed children do for comfort.

It doesn't help. His body is tensed for sound, for footsteps, gunshots, Patrick's golden voice, _Pete and I attacked the lost Astoria with promise and precision and a mess of youthful innocence_, even though that's just crazy. Why would Patrick be singing? Except that the Patrick in Pete's head always is, sweet, sweet voice belting out a melody, diving into the lower range that is all deep and dark and chocolaty and Pete just wants to roll around in it. Patrick singing from their last tour, and three years ago, and all the way back to argyle and dark socks and basement dust.

Time is a torture device, Pete has always thought so, the tick-tock secret weapon of Guantanamo and boring high school teachers alike, but it's never been as bad as this. Michael went off after Patrick at least a hundred years ago, Michael and Loud Shirt and Hot Chick, with guns in their hands, Jesus, _guns_. Like for actual shooting. In a place where Patrick is.

Suddenly Pete can't breathe. The metal sides and roof of the car press in at him as if it's going through a junkyard crusher. He flings the door open and stumbles out. Air. God, he needs air. And yeah, yeah, Michael said, but Pete doesn't _care_. No one could possibly expect him to stay in a car that's trying to swallow him whole.

He feels better for maybe five seconds, and then guns and Patrick and not knowing a damned thing. He's creeping closer to get a better view before he even registers what he's doing. If he can just see _something_, maybe it'll keep him from going totally insane. No doubt, Michael would not approve of this move. Pete imagines a dark scowl and a warning incongruously a la Lost in Space: _Danger, Pete Wentz, danger_! But right now, he can't believe there's anything more likely to kill him than not knowing.

Pete moves a little closer. Little closer. Closer still. Then he sees him. Patrick. Squinty and startled in an endearingly mole-like way. And Pete's unconscious mind is just full of brilliant ideas today, because suddenly he's running, his lungs burning not so much from exertion as sheer fucking joy. _Patrick, Patrick, Patrick_.

He sails past Michael, whose expression practically screams _seriously, how fucking stupid are you_, and Pete so doesn't care. So doesn't. Because Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Pete lands on him with a soft "oof," wraps his arms around with all his strength, because if he holds on tightly enough maybe he can make Patrick understand. _Neverletthemtakeyouagainneverletthemneverlethem._

Michael's hand closes around Pete's shoulder, and Pete clings to Patrick even harder, maybe a little too hard if Patrick's surprised gasp for air is any indication. Michael doesn't go away. Pete's hands ball into fists, because he may be so fucking grateful he's ready to give up his firstborn, but no one should try separating him from Patrick right now. That's like a declaration of fucking war or something.

"We need to get to cover," Michael insists.

He's sensible enough not to try to pry them apart, just hustles them as a single entity out of the open, back toward the car, then handily makes himself scarce. Pete is trembling, and he wants to crawl right in and take up residence inside Patrick's skin. Relief and residual fear and happiness that is so big it could break him are all tangled up together, making his throat hurt. He's lost his words. Seriously. All of them. The only thing he can think to do is hold on even tighter.

Patrick snuffles a laugh, tickling Pete's neck with it. He's not naturally as big a hugger as Pete is, but he hasn't made any move to pull away. In fact, his grip is just as fierce as Pete's. The way Patrick feels in Pete's arms is not exactly a revelation, but he marvels at it anyway, how solid Patrick is and real and _his_. God. His. He's been so fucking stupid.

He rubs his cheek against Patrick's shoulder, buries his face in his neck.

"I'm pretty sure I smell," Patrick says, trying to make light.

Pete pushes his nose deeper into Patrick's skin. "Dude, you totally reek."

Patrick laughs, his hands warm on Pete's back. "I missed you, too."

Pete's stomach turns upside down, because this could be another moment when he disappoints those folk hero expectations he has of himself, and he really can't take that. "No," he thinks firmly.

Only apparently he actually says it.

Patrick pulls back, raises an eyebrow at him.

"No. I mean, _yes_. Of course I missed you! Only this isn't just– Oh, fuck. Here."

He takes Patrick's face in his hands and kisses him, just light, dry little touches of their lips, but still, Pete's heart is slamming in his chest. Patrick's lips taste pink–apparently Patrick isn't the only one who can have a flash of synesthesia every now and again–and they're just as sweet and soft under Pete's mouth as he's always imagined.

He gets so caught up in the experience of Patrick'smouthfucking_finally_ that it takes him a moment to realize that Patrick has gone perfectly still. The bottom drops out of Pete's stomach, and he's already queuing up some _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, no, I swear I haven't lost my mind_ desperate babbling. But then, Patrick is pressing against him, into him, mouth opening, hands grappling at Pete's shoulders, tongue licking at his lips, promising dirty, filthy things.

Dirty, filthy Patrick. Oh, hell yeah.

They kiss until Pete starts to see red behind his eyes, a sure sign that he's going to pass out if he doesn't come up for air soon. He pulls away gasping, and Patrick is blushing gorgeously and panting. Pete breaks into a huge grin and is about to dive in for more, figuring, hey, breathing is really kind of overrated, when he hears insistent throat clearing behind him.

Sam and Fiona have materialized from somewhere, and everyone is staring at them impatiently. Michael jerks his head toward the car. "If we don't go now, we're going to run into the cops."

Cops would require explaining, and explaining would take time, and Pete plans to use every minute he has for the foreseeable future exploring the dirty, filthy Patrick he's been promised. He drags Patrick to the car and pushes him into the backseat and tumbles in after him.

* * *

As weird as it was being kidnapped, and that was _plenty_ weird, thank you very much, Patrick's rescue manages to be even weirder. He thinks that this is probably some comment on his life, although he's not sure what it means exactly. Knowing much about anything right now is not Patrick's strong suit. Pete kissed him, but that could just be a fuck-you-were-kidnapped freak out. Then again, Pete does currently have a death grip on Patrick's hand and he's practically sitting in Patrick's lap, although, hey, this is par for the slinky-hipped karmic payback course, and again with the possible freak out explanation.

Then there's the 007 character at the wheel–the 007 character who works for _Pete_, what the fuck–greeting the sound of approaching sirens by swerving hard, leaving the nice, paved road to cut through a patch of underbrush. They have to dodge trees as the car bounces crazily over the rough ground. Patrick's hat goes flying, but Pete remains grimly attached to his side.

"I'm confused," Patrick says, to no one in particular. "We're running away from the police because…why? Don't we want the guys who kidnapped me in jail?"

"Dude, I want those fuckers dead!" Pete spits out vehemently.

Patrick leans into him, not that he should be encouraging this really, but somehow Pete wanting to commit homicide on his behalf is just dementedly sweet.

The 007 guy catches Patrick's eye in the rearview mirror. "They're going to jail, Patrick, for about twenty-five years thanks to mandatory drug sentencing. The same amount of time they'd get for kidnapping, but this way, there's no publicity, no testifying at trial, and no copycat getting the idea that snatching someone from your band is the fastest way to a recording contract."

"_Copycat_," Pete whispers, sounding truly horrified.

Patrick's not so crazy about the idea, either.

"Yeah, okay," he says a little weakly. "Good. Good plan. You know, avoiding the police and all."

Pete curls closer, his death grip on Patrick's hand getting a little deathlier. The car finally careens back onto the actual road, and they speed down the highway toward the city, and Patrick feels like he can maybe, sort of, finally breathe again.

It seems strange after the misadventures of the past two days just to go back to the hotel like nothing happened, but that's what they do. 007 pulls up to the front entrance, and they all get out, and Patrick thinks that a rescue involving guns, off-roading and busting a drug operation shouldn't feel quite so anti-climactic.

"Hey man–" Pete starts and then stops for some reason.

So Patrick jumps in, holds out his hand. "Thanks sounds kind of lame after everything you did. But– Seriously. A lot."

007 shakes his head. "Forget it. I'm just glad it all worked out."

"Yeah," Pete says, shifting his weight. "I hope for you too, man."

Patrick doesn't miss the glance that passes between them. He recognizes Pete's day-after expression–a slightly manic combination of awkward and grateful and ready to flee to Mexico. Patrick looks away quickly. There are some things he'd really rather not know.

On the way inside, Pete says, "Oh hey, there's something I need to–" He pulls out his phone, and Patrick can hear the tinny ringing. "So you don't need to come down here and kick my ass. Seriously. He's right– No! I'm not faking." He pushes the phone at Patrick. "They want proof I'm not just being an asshole."

"Hello?" Patrick says warily, because it's been that kind of day.

"Patrick," Andy's voice pulses warmly in Patrick's ear, decidedly relieved.

Andy is not one to sound ruffled, like, ever. This more than anything else brings it all home for Patrick. Oh, hey, _fucking kidnapped_.

"I guess Pete really does have people," Joe muses.

"Um. Yeah." People he's _slept with_. Patrick keeps this to himself.

"Okay, so looks like I don't have to kill him after all," Andy says serenely. "Not this time anyway."

"As much as I enjoy blaming Pete for, you know, everything," Patrick tells him, "this wasn't actually his fault."

"Uh-huh," Andy says, not like he believes it.

"Dude. Just don't get kidnapped anymore, okay?" Joe chimes in with the helpful advice.

"I'll do my best." Patrick hands the phone back to Pete, and then something occurs to him. "Who else– Do I need to call my mom?" Suddenly he can't breathe again. Jesus. His mom must be freaking out.

Pete steers him into the elevator. "Nope. I didn't tell anyone. The guys just figured it out. I didn't think you'd want–"

Patrick nods gratefully. "Yeah. Yeah, thanks."

Pete pulls Patrick back against him, wrapping his arms around his chest, hooking his chin over his shoulder, ignoring the startled looks from the middle-aged couple in sun visors sharing the elevator with them. From anyone else, this would no doubt feel like a grand declaration, but from Pete, it's…well, yeah. Patrick is increasingly confused about what actually happened back at the warehouse. Did Pete even kiss him at all? Being kidnapped could cause hallucinations for all Patrick knows.

They get off on their floor, and Pete holds Patrick's hand all the way down the hall to their room. Inside, Patrick just kind of stalls, because it feels like he's home, only not, like it's been forever, only not. He trails into his room, and his stuff is right where he left it, all over everywhere, and he thinks distractedly, _damn, I'm a pig_. He has no clue what to do with himself.

Then Pete is standing right there, with ideas apparently. "Take off your clothes."

Patrick blushes. So. Not hallucinating then. He's imagined this moment, on and off since he was sixteen, and never once was there kidnapping involved. Never once did he freeze up like some kind of terrified virgin instead of the guy who's been in love with his best friend since, oh, kind of _forever_. This just goes to show the limits of imagination.

Pete misunderstands and kicks into persuasive overdrive. "I'll make it worth your while!" He snatches up Patrick's hand, clutches at it. "Just– let me."

"I–" Patrick's tongue gets tangled up in his own mouth. _Yes_. How hard is that really?

Pete's face lights up, that maniac look he gets when he's really happy. This is one of the many reasons they just _work_. Patrick doesn't actually have to speak for Pete to hear him.

"Patrick," Pete says, like it's the first time he's ever heard the word and it absolutely delights him.

He pulls Patrick by the arm, tugging him into a kiss, and then pulls away again to get at Patrick's clothes. Pete is actually bouncing on his toes, as if _he's_ the one who's waited for this forever. And if that's true, then why has there been any waiting at all? Patrick is confused.

But then, his shirt hits the floor, and he has more important things to focus on. Pete gets his hands on Patrick's jeans, fighting to get them open, too frantic to be much actual use in the cause of nakedness. Patrick bats him away, because as much as he wants Pete's hands on him, he wants them both naked more.

"You do you," he tells Pete. "I'll do me."

"Okay, okay." The words get muffled as Pete yanks his T-shirt up over his head. "Just– Fuck. _Come on_."

Now it's Patrick's turn to struggle with his jeans, and they're not even painted on like Pete's, and just shit, shit. Maybe there really is a God, and maybe that God really does have a grudge against the gay sex, because why else would Patrick's zipper choose _now_ to get stuck?

"Oh fuck that," Pete declares, with what sounds like very real animus for Patrick's pants.

He grips the two sides of the fly and pulls as hard as he can, and Patrick forgets sometimes how freakishly strong Pete is for such a little guy. The zipper makes a loud, desperate scrape that probably means the jeans are ruined forever, and Patrick kicks them off. Fucking _finally_, and Pete launches himself at Patrick, all over him in an instant, hands and mouth and all that beautiful, marked skin.

Patrick traces the tattoo on Pete's belly, like he's always, _always_ wanted to do. Pete shivers, and warmth curls in Patrick's stomach, and he wants to make Pete shiver some more, a lot, wants to make him tremble and beg and shake like he's going to fucking come apart in Patrick's hands. He uses his nails, scratches along the inky edge, into the hair above Pete's cock.

_Pete's cock_, that is flushed, and curving up toward his belly, and glistening wet. Because of Patrick.

Pete grabs his wrist. "This is already going to be over way too fast."

"But–"

Pete bulldozes him back onto the bed and clambers on top, rubbing against him as he goes, and okay, so maybe Pete does have some good ideas every now and then. It's even better when Pete commandeers Patrick's mouth, biting and licking his way inside. Years of Pete laying big, smacking, friendly kisses on him does nothing to prepare Patrick for the truly filthy things that Pete knows how to do with his tongue. Patrick tangles his fingers in Pete's hair and holds on and kisses back so fucking greedily. Because he's just– fuck, he's waited so long.

But then, Patrick suddenly finds himself flailing at air, because Pete has pulled away, and the distressed noise that comes out of him sounds something like "nnnnnghr," which would be embarrassing, except for the fact that Patrick really fucking means it.

"Nnnnnghr!" he says more insistently.

Pete grins, a quick, bright flash of teeth. "Don't worry, Pattycakes. I got you."

Then he's slithering back down Patrick's body, rubbing and kissing, that sweet, dirty mouth all over Patrick's skin, and Patrick realizes he's going to have to revise the big list of "Things Pete Can and Can Not Be Trusted With." Still firmly in the no column are fireworks, embarrassing secrets you don't want everyone to know, and caulking guns, but sex? That's an emphatic yes.

"Patrick, Patrick," Pete whispers, and it's Patrick's turn to shiver.

Pete settles between his legs, and it would be a big, stupid lie to say that Patrick has never imagined this. He's just never actually _expected_ it. So the sight of Pete's dark head bent over him, the feel of Pete's hands on his hips, fingers pressing in, the touch of Pete's tongue to his cock, blazing a speculative path from root to tip, nearly undoes him, nearly makes Pete prescient with the "over all too soon" thing.

Patrick runs his hands over Pete's shoulders. Gently rubs his thumb in circles over the delicate bones of Pete's neck. Skims his fingers up into Pete's hair, which is rough and smooth at the same time. Pete opens up, takes Patrick's cock into his mouth, sucking, tonguing that place where he was cut as a baby, and oh fuck! Patrick's thighs tremble, and he tries not to pull Pete's hair, not particularly successfully. Pete's head bobs between his legs, and that's the most obscenely beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen. Every touch makes the heat pool blisteringly in his belly.

Just like that he's coming, God, in _Pete's mouth_.

Pete pulls off, licking his lips, wiping Patrick's come off his chin, sucking his fingers, utterly shameless. Patrick grins. Pete grins back, stretches up, kisses him. Patrick licks at the taste of his own come in Pete's mouth. Pete is still hard, cock messy and straining against his belly.

"Let me," Patrick murmurs against his lips, trying to push Pete over onto his back.

"Not gonna last," Pete pants.

He stays there, braced on his arms over Patrick, reaching for his cock, reaching for another kiss.

"_Let me_," Patrick says more insistently, pushing Pete's hand away.

Patrick curls his hand around Pete's cock, and it's hot and wet in his grip. He squeezes and pulls, and Pete whimpers.

"Fuck!" He's shaking, coming apart in Patrick's hands, and it's even more fucking awesome than Patrick imagined. "'ve wanted this since–"

Pete's eyes fly closed, and he bites his lips, and then he's coming in Patrick's hand. Pete collapses on top of him, and it's clear he has no intention of moving any time soon. Patrick reaches out, gropes for the Kleenex box on the bedside table, cleans them up the best he can, and tosses the used tissues onto the floor.

Pete plants his head on Patrick's shoulder and presses tightly to Patrick's side, making his colonial intentions perfectly clear. Patrick strokes his hand over Pete's back, unconsciously picking out chords on Pete's skin.

"How long?" he wonders out loud, because Pete never finished that sentence.

Pete's answer comes muffled against Patrick's shoulder, "Always."

Patrick frowns. "Why didn't you say something? Or, I don't know, _do_ something? You're not exactly shy when you want–"

Pete shakes his head. "I promised your mom I'd keep you out of trouble."

Patrick blinks up at the ceiling. "That makes no sense. Also, it was _nine years ago_."

"Didn't want to fuck you up," Pete mumbles.

It shouldn't still have the power to surprise him that Pete can be at once the boldest person Patrick knows and also the most self-loathing, but there you have it. He's as startled by this fact as ever.

Patrick sighs, pulls Pete closer. "Yes, it's truly sucked the way you've ruined my life, you know, with the letting me into the band, and getting me to sing, and writing songs with me, and cheerleading every single thing I do, and making pretty much every dream I've ever had come true. I really don't know why I haven't kicked your ass for that."

"I'm serious!" Pete insists.

"So am I," Patrick insists right back. "I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old. If you haven't turned me into a crack whore or whatever by now, I think I'm probably safe. Also, it's pretty fucking insulting that you think I'd actually _let_ you fuck me up. You're not that powerful. You get that, right?"

"I guess." It's the small, tight voice that means Pete is still kind of scared, and then his head springs up, all belated realization. "Wait. Did you just say you're in love with me?"

Patrick rolls his eyes.

"You're kind of a moron, you know," he tells Pete fondly.

Pete pokes a finger into his chest. "You like me that way."

Patrick smiles. "Yeah, I really kind of do."

* * *

For a while after Patrick is rescued, Michael keeps an eye on Brad and his band of hare-brained screwups, just in case. Their arrest is splashed all over the evening news. The police have a field day holding press conferences, taking credit for shutting down one of the largest marijuana growing operations in the county's history. The judge denies bail, calling them a flight risk, so it looks as if Michael won't have to worry about them going after Pete or Patrick for payback while they're waiting trial. There's no mention of the kidnapping. Apparently, the gang is smart enough to keep at least some of their crimes to themselves.

This leaves Michael free to concentrate on his own work again, figuring out who burned him and why. He's up early this morning, coffee in hand, the tiny shreds of evidence he's collected spread out in front of him. He stares at it all, pondering, searching for the next thread to follow. The apartment is quiet, empty, a decided contrast after all the Wentz-related drama.

When he hears the knock at the door, for a moment he thinks he's imagined it, or at least, he hopes so.

No luck, though, and he goes to answer it, sighing a little.

"Michael."

"Fi."

She sweeps past him, and Michael has pretty much given up on curbing her of this habit of just showing up. He closes the door, and Fiona settles at the kitchen island. Michael pours her a cup of coffee.

"Thanks." She makes an appreciative "mmm" as she sips at it.

There's an envelope sitting on the counter, and Michael slides it over to her. "For the job."

She raises an eyebrow, takes a look inside, whistles softly. "Pete's very generous."

The check arrived by messenger a few days after the rescue, along with a note, or really a snippet of song, _time for that girl to catch you/a key to unlatch you/just need a new blueprint/and maybe a hard hat_. Pete is a cryptic lyricist, but not the most subtle yenta in the world.

"I needed to give Sam and Nate a cut, but the rest is for you," Michael tells Fiona.

She tilts her head inquisitively.

He shrugs. "You're the one who wanted to help him."

"True." Fiona flips her hair back over her shoulder. "But you're the one who made him see what was really important."

Michael has a sudden picture of Pete, the way he looked walking into the hotel after it was all over, his hand tucked into Patrick's back pocket.

"Pete figured that out all on his own."

Fiona leans closer. "So, did you have any revelations, Michael?"

All the things that Michael could say to her pass single-file through his head. That there's this spot on the inside of her wrist that is the softest thing he's ever touched. That he can still catch the scent of her hair hours after she's gone. That she's the closest he's ever come to being able to love someone, or even wanting to. That in his nightmares, his enemies always have her in their crosshairs. And that there's a part of him that would like to believe any of that could make a difference.

But he's learned the hard way not to pretend, least of all to himself.

"There is something," Michael tells her, and it's a credit to his training that he doesn't hesitate, doesn't rush, doesn't sound anything but sincere. "Campbell is a good guy. I'm glad you've got someone like him in your life."

Fiona's expression freezes, just for a second, and then she lifts her chin. "I'm glad you approve." She gets up casually. "See you around, Michael." She strolls out of the apartment like it's nothing.

A credit to her training.

It's not what Michael wants, of course, but it is what it is. Happy endings are for regular people, and maybe the occasional rock star.

He picks up his coffee and bends over his papers, trying to tease something apart, something that will help him pick up Carla's trail again. Everything is quiet and empty. Just him and his work.

Just the way it always is.


End file.
